The Possibility Of Being
by Once Beautiful and Brave
Summary: A 4th Season novel in 5 parts. Just as Vincent and Diana's relationship progresses from friendship to something deeper, they discover that a dangerous link to the past has returned and threatens not only their love, but their very lives.
1. Book One: Journey

1. Journey

"_Someone has come into my life … from the world Above."_

"Come Below."

"You're starting to sound like a broken record, Vincent. Every time you show up lately it's the same thing." Diana squinted up at him from her spot on the couch. He could tell by her pained expression and the translucence of her skin that she was fighting a headache. He knew such things about her now.

"Broken record?" He couldn't help but ask. "I'm sorry, Diana; I'm not familiar with the expression."

"Yeah, I guess you're not real big on turntables down there, are you? It happens when the needle gets stuck in a groove and plays the same thing over and over. You know: a record … music? Here," she offered, rising from the couch and giving him a wide berth as she moved to the concrete block and wooden bookshelf against the south wall of her loft. "I got an old Jimmy Witherspoon album, skips like a gaggle of five-year-old girls. Lemme find it and you can hear what I mean."

Vincent turned in place and studied her as she flipped switches on the stereo receiver, wondering how far he might be able to push her before she became angry with him. Her line dividing tolerance and irritation had become an ever-shifting one these last several days. He could sense in her now only distance and an inner silence she had begun to retreat to more and more: her way of blocking his attempts at reaching her through his empathic gift. It frustrated him. Deciding, he moved to her side and, as she searched the shelves for the album she'd named, cautiously laid his hand on her forearm.

"Diana."

She jerked her head around, looking down at the hand on her arm and then up to meet his eyes: a quick motion that left no doubt she wished not to be touched. He respected that and removed his hand. But those few moments of contact told him everything he needed to know.

"Perhaps," he said to her, "I sound to you like a 'broken record' because I can see your torment, your pain. Yet … you continue to refuse the help I've offered."

She turned her gaze back to the bookshelf and her attention to her search. "It's not torment, it's stress."

"Are we to argue semantics now?"

Diana abruptly shoved a line of albums she'd pulled out from their neat row back into place with the flat of her open palm. They made an audible _thwack_ as they met the resistance of the brick wall. She lifted her eyes to the ceiling and he saw the glistening of tears gathering in them - felt her struggle to control them. Diana disliked crying in front of him. He knew that about her, too.

"Listen, I appreciate you stopping by to check on me and all, but I'm okay, Vincent."

As the first tear slid down her cheek and was summarily swiped away, he asked, "Then there have been no more nightmares? You're sleeping as you should? Eating as you should? Attending to your work … as you should be?" Her stoic silence was answer enough. "Then you're not okay … are you?"

He watched as she folded her arms tightly across her chest, closing herself outwardly as she retreated further inward. Diana pivoted and moved toward her desk, giving him her back. She poked at a pile of books on the desk's surface, rearranged the pens and markers in their home in an old and chipped coffee mug, and straightened a stack of papers. Her occasional sniffle was the only sound in the dimly lit loft, save the barely audible white-noise hum of the stereo speakers. He gave her his silence, the only thing he could give, the only thing she would allow. He made himself think of tranquil things: nothing that would add to the emotional burden she already bore.

After a long time, in which she'd stopped fidgeting with her things and her concentration seemed focused on the empty wall before her, she said, "Look, it's not that big a deal. A lot of us on the 210 have to take down-time after we've worked a few bad cases right in a row. You gotta have some time to get your head straight again, get back to something resembling normal. It's not like I've never done it before."

What she failed to mention - and what he would not - was that this time the down-time she spoke of was not of her choice but had instead been forced upon her by her superiors. He would also not mention the reason why: that for the second time in less than a year, she'd shot to death an unarmed man in the line of duty. First had been Gabriel, and a little less than two weeks past, Wesley Conrad, a man who'd financed the kidnapping of children for unspeakable crimes; a man who'd trafficked in the most innocent of human beings for sexual slavery.

He knew these things merely as facts, for Diana had only been willing to share that much: just those and none of her feelings. She'd become so tightly closed off from him that he'd only been able to grasp the edges of her emotions the last several times he'd come to her, and then only fleetingly; most especially when she was overly tired or had stopped too long at some mindless task she'd taken up and had allowed herself to feel something beyond numb.

He knew what it was to bind one's self so tightly against the pain. To do it so successfully nothing could penetrate, so that all was darkness. Not even the smallest light of hope trying to make its way in could defeat something so large. He knew that, had survived it, and had vowed never to allow himself to be lost in so great an aloneness again.

He badly wanted to go to her, to take her in his arms and gather her close. His decision to offer to her refuge Below was not one he'd taken lightly. He knew what it might cost them, should she agree. Their friendship had solidified in the months since he'd brought Jacob home, and Diana had become a Helper in the truest sense of the word. But beyond their friendship and the easy camaraderie they'd begun to share - forged, he had first supposed, of their dark and dangerous beginning and their similar gifts of empathy – deeper feelings were making themselves known - to him, at least. He hadn't discussed those feelings with her; there was no need. They were becoming finely tuned to each other's rhythms and moods now. There were less sharp edges to have to negotiate, less bumping into each other and more the beginnings of a unique and graceful dance neither led but merely instinctively moved within. Theirs was a comfortable relationship.

He knew he risked that and much more by inviting Diana Below, to heal. But he couldn't find it in himself to deny her the possibility of such a gift out of selfish fear of what he might have to sacrifice by the giving. Diana had, from the very beginning, stood quite literally toe to toe with him and had spoken truths that'd been painful, but which he'd needed to hear. No one before had ever spoken to him the way she had, with such bluntness and stubborn conviction - this woman he sometimes felt he'd always known. She had done it utterly without fear, then and ever since. He owed her no less than to do the same. And so he moved toward her. Not close enough that he could easily touch her or that she would interpret as crowding: just enough that she would feel his presence and know him to be near.

"I'm remembering a dark alley on a night not many months past," he began softly, so that she had to turn her head slightly to better hear him. "I was so startled when I looked up and saw you coming toward me. You were so determined to stop me from destroying myself, Diana. Even when I knew myself past desiring anything but revenge upon the man who'd murdered Catherine and stolen my Jacob, who could feel nothing but rage … you were able to reach me. To remind me of what was truly important, even though I thought I was beyond any sort of hope, much less redemption. Do you remember what you said to me that night?"

She gave a tiny lift of her shoulders, still turned away, still with arms tightly clasped around her slender frame. He began to wonder if that would be all she'd offer, but then she added, "I said a lot of things. Can you narrow it down at all?"

He couldn't help the lift of his mouth in a tender smile. To Diana, God truly _was_ in the details. She couldn't suppress that aspect of herself any more than she could the summer sky warmth of her eyes or the vivid autumn red of her hair.

"You said to me …" he answered, pausing for a moment to make sure he had all the words in their proper order, "'If you continue alone in this, you are going to lose everything.' Do you remember?"

Vincent felt rather than saw her twinge of irritation and recognized its source. He wasn't playing fairly and they both knew it. But he couldn't suppress his innate strategist any more than she could her boundless imagination and attention to detail. He would use whatever means he had available to convince her of the strength of his argument, to win her acquiescence.

Diana sighed and muttered, "I remember. And I really dislike you right now."

He took that as permission and closed the distance between them. Vincent pulled her to him and she came willingly, turning at the same time, so that when his arms circled around her it was an easy thing for her to lay her cheek against his shoulder.

"No, you don't," he whispered, resting his head against hers.

They held the embrace for a while, content to simply be doing that. But then Diana pulled away and he allowed her, watching as she made her way into the kitchen area of the loft and stopped on the other side of the island. She leaned over it and braced an elbow there, propping her chin in her hand. Diana caught his eye and held it, a direct and open stare. He remained where he was and let himself be looked at.

Her eyes on him, always steady and straight, had never bothered him the way it would have had anyone else, save Father or Devin, done it. Sometimes it had been difficult even to have Catherine look at him so intently, or to meet her gaze with the same sort of steadiness. But not with Diana: he had never known anything less than that from her. And he knew that she saw all that he was and accepted him unconditionally.

"So am I going to have to be on candle duty if I stay down there more than a couple days?" she challenged. "Gonna recruit me for changing diapers in the nursery or slinging hash in the Commons? I guess sentry duty is probably out of the question … or maybe not. Maybe I'd fit right in doing that, so long as you don't give me a gun." She barked a short, harsh laugh. "I'm liable to blow away the first guy I don't recognize."

Vincent gave her a look he was certain expressed mild reproach for the undeserved jab she'd taken at herself. Diana was almost as practiced at self-recrimination as he.

"You needn't do anything … but heal and regain your strength," he assured her. "Nothing will be required of you but that you accept what is offered you in friendship and kindness … and give back only what you are able. It is your choice, Diana, as it is for anyone who comes Below seeking sanctuary. You may do nothing if that is what you wish. Or, if you would rather, some suitable work could be found for you. There is always something to be done, and fewer hands to do it than what's ideal. I'm sure Father would be happy to find –"

"And what's he gonna think about this?" Diana's outburst didn't come as a surprise: he had expected it. "Some topsider shows up out of nowhere wanting a bed and three squares just because she can't be trusted with a gun anymore. Because it got to be too much and she can't get her shit together and isn't fit for active duty." The last four words were accompanied by quote marks jabbed in the air. "Bet he'll be pleased as punch, Father will. So what about that?"

He calmly folded his hand in front of him and said, "He is expecting you. And has been for several days, since I first told him of my intent to offer you refuge."

She rewarded him with a doubtful sidelong look. "And he's okay with that?"

"You're a Helper, Diana, and entitled to the same privileges as anyone considered such by the community. Father is aware you've been troubled of late, and of my concern for you."

"Oh, great. So now I'm a damn charity case."

Vincent tipped his head and let out a heavy sigh: sometimes she could be so very exasperating.

"Must we continue with this?" he implored, waiting until she agreed to meet his gaze. "While I appreciate your efforts at stalling, Diana, and your attempts to come up with as many excuses as you can, I think we both know the matter has been settled. Must you fight me every step of the way? Might we not just be peaceable and perhaps gather some of your things to take Below?"

He stood steadfast as her eyes aimed daggers at him. She finally pushed away from the island and retorted, "Fine, we'll do it your way. Does that make you happy? Oh, and did I mention I really don't like you?"

"You did. And I don't believe it now any more than when first you said it."

"I didn't figure you would."

Diana disappeared into the bedroom with that admission, hopefully to begin to pack. He allowed himself a few moments of satisfaction at what he considered his rather sizable victory. And then was taken aback when she poked her head around the doorway a few minutes later and offered to let him pick out which undergarments she should bring with her. He gave her a coy smile and politely declined.

…**.**

Hours later, after Diana had been shown the guest chamber closest to his and had then helped him settle nine-month-old Jacob for the night, she'd waved off his invitation to stay awhile longer and had bid him good night. Though he missed her company, Vincent understood her need to be alone. Diana's was a fairly solitary life. A mechanism, he suspected, for coping with her empathy … among other things. He knew what it was to be surrounded by the emotions of others; had himself at times found it overwhelming. And she was so fragile now, so close to losing whatever delicate balance she'd been struggling to maintain.

He'd taken to his chair, intending to resume reading a thick historical novel Diana had lent him about the life of Irish king Brian Boru. But after reading the same paragraph three times, he realized the futility of keeping to the task and instead marked his place and set the book aside. Without looking he reached down into the cradle beside the chair and rested his hand on one of Jacob's chubby legs. The boy was sleeping soundly, peacefully. He closed his eyes and tipped his head to rest against the chair back, content for a time to simply float in the serene and colorful seas of his son's dreaming.

He had almost fallen asleep when he sensed presence in the tunnel outside his chamber and came fully awake. _It's only just Father_, Vincent realized, and patted reassurance to Jacob. The child had momentarily stirred, alerted to his sudden attentiveness through their bond, compounded by the addition of touch. A quick glance confirmed Jacob had gone back to sleep just as quickly, his left thumb stuck firmly in his mouth, tiny lips pursed around it. Vincent's face held the memory of a smile as he turned in the chair and watched Father come down the passageway.

"Vincent." The older man paused just outside the chamber proper, leaning heavily on his cane. "Am I disturbing you?"

"No, please, come in." The invitation was automatic and sincere. Father, if not entirely welcome on every occasion, was nonetheless always allowed in. Refusing entry to the man who'd raised him, who'd made his very survival possible, was as unlikely a thing to consider as not taking his next breath.

Father joined him at the small table, settling into the chair opposite his after a quick peek at his grandson. "We won't disturb young Jacob if we talk for a minute?" he asked quietly.

"No, he won't wake now. The sleep of innocence is a deep one."

"Ah, yes," Father said. "I remember the days when you were Jacob's age. And, as seems to be inherent in this case, I could never persuade you to nap during the day either. You would stay awake just as long as you possibly could and then fall into such a deep sleep I found myself checking several times of an evening just to make certain you were still breathing."

He returned the warm smile offered him, taking those few seconds to gauge Father's mood. It was as he'd anticipated: anxious and a bit uncomfortable.

_It's best to get matters out in the open_, he decided, _and be done with it._

"But you didn't come here to talk about that," Vincent gently prodded.

Father fidgeted a bit, looking away and adjusting his position in the chair. "Ah, no … no, I didn't."

In direct contrast to Father's uneasiness, Vincent settled more comfortably in his own chair and folded his hands in his lap, waiting. After several seconds with nothing more said, he prompted, "This is about Diana." Not a question. He knew exactly what had motivated the late night visit.

"Yes … Diana." There was a small silence before Father continued, "Or perhaps it's not just about Diana ... Vincent, I'm concerned about how having her here might affect you."

"I seem to recall having had a similar conversation with you once before. When Catherine's father died and she came Below."

That got him a sharp look. "Well, yes, exactly. Just so. But my concerns are not quite the same this time."

Vincent found himself already growing weary of the roundabout path it seemed Father had decided on in order to get to the heart of the matter. He was tired and unwilling to follow his lead. He found himself changing course for them, unable to hide his irritation as he asked, "So when you agreed Diana should be offered whatever sanctuary we could give her, you weren't sincere? It was done only for my sake … or to keep the peace?"

"Vincent, please don't take that tone with me. And don't put words in my mouth. I'm perfectly capable of speaking my own thoughts."

He unfolded his hands and lifted them palm up in invitation. "Then please, Father, continue."

He received another stern look in response. Then: "I don't believe the sincerity of the offer should be called into question, for it _was_ sincere. Diana has more than shown herself to be invaluable to this community and I have her, in large part, to thank for your safe return home, and that of my grandson's. Not to mention my own life, after the tragic incident with Gregory Coyle. Whatever help we can give her is the very least we can do. But I must tell you: I find this entire situation with the two of you disturbing."

"Would you care to elaborate?" Despite himself, Vincent found he couldn't help but ask. What was it Father saw, when he considered the two of them? Did he even have the slightest idea of the truth?

Father gave a terse nod of agreement and continued, "Ever since you first came to me and told me about Diana, I've had my fears that you might, in the enormity of your grief, come to look at this woman as some sort of … substitute … for the love you lost with Catherine's death."

"I lost nothing, Father. As long as I live, Catherine lives in me - as does our love. That will never die. And there is Jacob, who is the love we shared made flesh and blood. Diana is not," he found the taste of the next word bitter on his tongue and spat it out, "_substitute_ for Catherine. I cannot believe you would even entertain such a thought."

"You can hardly blame me, Vincent. No, now please hear me out. In not much more than a year's time you've suffered what can only be called a complete emotional breakdown - along with the temporary loss of your empathic gift - and then a months-long search for Catherine, only to have it end with her dying in your arms. And then the search for your son, and the abuse you suffered at the hands of that monster before you were able to escape.

"And for a good deal of that time Diana was at your side, or at least very close to it. You said yourself she had become your last hope. She came into your life at a time when you desperately needed something to cling to; someone outside the confines of these tunnels, where you were obviously not able to find the sort of help you deemed necessary. And for that I shall always be remorseful. But I did the best I could, Vincent, as did everyone Below - and all of our Helpers, Above."

He stopped then and waited for Vincent's nod of acknowledgement, which he gave after a few moments.

"You would not be the first," Father continued, "to forge an emotional connection based solely on a shared tragedy. It is a very … human desire, to want to connect with the person you've shared so much with in so short a time. And lest you think me unkind, my concern is not merely for you, Vincent, but for Diana, as well. I've grown fond of her these last months and I don't wish to see her hurt."

Vincent waited to make certain this part of Father's soliloquy was finished. It seemed to be, and so he took a moment or two to gather his thoughts and began, slowly, to try to explain.

"You don't understand, Father. It's … different. What I share with Diana is not the same as what I had with Catherine. And I'm not sure any words of mine will help you to understand what that difference is."

"Will you at least try? I want to understand, Vincent - truly I do."

He dropped his eyes and studied his inhuman hands: clawed and furred fingers entwined and held tensely between his knees. He took in a deep breath and then exhaled it as he said, "Catherine was … a completion. She was a part of me that'd been missing before the night I first found her and brought her Below. A lack I was not even aware of until she came into my life and I began to understand how truly alone I had been before her. But Diana is …"

He trailed off, unable to find the right words. How could he explain something he was only himself beginning to understand? The things he'd started to sense in Diana as she'd submerged herself into the madness of the Wesley Conrad case; the small coincidences and events from the past several months that'd finally begun to coalesce in his mind to create a larger, more complete picture - the whole of which he found almost too immense to wrap his mind around.

How could one explain something like that? He found he wanted to try, anyway - not just for Father's edification but his own, as well. To take the thoughts and make them real with words - and therefore something to be acted upon. Forward momentum: finally taking action and confronting the reality that presented itself, instead of simply wondering and waiting.

So he lifted his eyes to those of the man across the table and said, "We are so much alike, Diana and I. There are such similarities … so many … that the differences pale in comparison. Catherine was my completion. But Diana … Diana is my reflection, Father. And where Catherine was my light, she is my mirror."

Father was shaking his head, puzzled. "Vincent, I'm not sure I know what you're saying."

Vincent sighed in frustration at his inability to articulate his thoughts. There had to be a way to strip away the layers and describe what lay at the core. And at the moment he realized what it was, he also knew Father would not be pleased to hear it. But it would have to be said. It was the truth, after all, and one should never be afraid of the truth.

"There is a … darkness growing in Diana. One that calls to me, Father, in some deep way … and which I cannot help but answer."

"A darkness?" Father sputtered.

"The things she has seen and done in her work. The empathy she experiences. The power of her imagination … Father, she immerses herself, willingly, into the minds of monsters. And in doing so, a part of the darkness she discovers in them remains within her. She is a hunter, and all hunters carry within them the lives of their prey. I know this … more intimately than I ever wanted to."

He glanced up, needing to see what was in his father's eyes. Because now would come the sticking point. He could only push Father so far in acknowledging the part of him that was not a man, and then push him no farther. There were certain truths he could never be made to admit – at least not out loud. It was a kindness, of course, and one extended to Vincent by most all the members of the community. But willful ignorance did not, could not, change the facts. He remembered a fragment of another conversation with Father:

"_Vincent, that is not who you are, to us."_

"_That is who I am. Perhaps even my fate." _

What Vincent saw in Father's face now was shock and dismay, and after a quick glance at the child sleeping an arm's length away, he asked, "Surely you don't mean … Vincent, you're not saying Diana is a danger to us?"

"No, only to herself. I know this part of it, too. That is why I want her here Below: so that I can begin to teach her, if she will allow me."

"Teach her? Teach her what, precisely?"

"How to control the darkness, to learn to survive it. To keep it from consuming her - as it has twice consumed me."

"Vincent, I won't begin to pretend I understand any of this. But if what you're saying is true, do you really think you're the one to be taking on such a delicate task?"

"Who better?" he asked.

"Well, surely there are those Above whose training would allow them to help Diana with this. There are psychologists, Vincent, therapists who do this sort of thing for a living. Might it not be a better idea–"

"No," he argued. "It must be me."

"For God's sake, Vincent, why?"

"Because I am the one who awakened the darkness in her. Because it recognized something in me, as I did in it: a reflection, Father. And because if it wasn't for me, none of this would be happening to her. So when her darkness rises up and looks for its reflection - as it will, as it must - it will find it. In me – through me. And then we will defeat it. Together."

**...**

He was in the Maze. How he'd gotten here he couldn't remember, but here he was.

Vincent turned slowly, trying to get his bearings, almost blind in the darkness that was little more than shades of gray even to his heightened, inhuman vision. Columns of soft, water-eaten stone surrounded him, some so large he wouldn't have been able to wrap his arms around their circumference; others barely more than the diameter of a sentry's staff. He studied them intently, as if they held the answer to why he was here. There was a reason for it, but he couldn't remember. Why had he come here? The landscape held no answers; the columns, with knee-high mists swirling around them, stood mute witness to his presence.

Vincent realized after a time (which was no time, for this was a dream) that he knew this place, this particular spot he occupied. He jerked with the realization, and spun around as a glint of something shining caught the edge of his vision. There, on a broken column as big around as a saucer and the height of a sideboard, some distance away. He took a single step and was there, though it should have taken him a dozen times that.

He gingerly reached out and plucked the object from the rock, balancing it between thumb and forefinger, slowly rotating it as he held it close to better see, even though he already knew what it was. A golden band, set with a stone as black as the deepest of the tunnels Below.

"Gabriel," he whispered.

"He's only a part of it," a voice replied from behind him. Vincent spun as a growl erupted from his throat.

Before him stood the white-haired assassin who'd been sent Below to kill him. The one who'd callously taken the lives of two of his friends before he'd led him down here and had outwitted him, had caused the man to use his own weapon to bring death raining down upon his head, crushing him beneath an unstable section of the Maze's ceiling as it had fallen.

It didn't seem at all odd to Vincent that the man stood facing him now, the ghost of the hunter he'd once been. He felt no threat from him. He'd already killed him and could do it again, if need be. Only this time it wouldn't be bloodless. The assassin had robbed him of that pleasure once; it wouldn't happen a second time.

"What do you mean?" Vincent demanded.

The man chuckled: a cold, dead sound.

"You didn't think it was just the two of us, did you, Gabriel and I? C'mon, I had you pegged as smarter than that, Vincent."

His name being spoken by the killer elicited another, deeper growl: a warning.

"Something like this always requires three, you know," the assassin added, apparently not bothered by the snarl.

"Something like what?" Vincent was quickly losing patience and wanted to be away from this place; away from the ghost whose voice had become an angry buzzing in his head.

"A trinity," the man answered. "An unholy one, to be sure, but not without its own kind of beauty."

"We're done here," Vincent retorted, disturbed for no reason he could put his finger on. But something in the hunter's words … "I have no more business with you."

That got him a shrug. "If that's the way you wanna play it. But don't say I didn't warn you. It's nowhere near over with yet. After all … there's still the woman to contend with."

He locked startled eyes on the assassin. Felt a part of him receding as another began struggling against an inner cage, demanding to be freed. The edges of his vision blurred with color: the deep red of spilled blood. Vincent felt his heart pounding in his chest, his breath coming rapid and shallow. The sense of threat had gone from none to enormous in a matter of seconds.

"And, of course, the child," the hunter added.

It was the sardonic grin those words came with that set the darkness loose and into motion. Vincent unleashed a roar and reared back with his right arm. Faster than thought, he swung it in a wide arc and delivered a single, powerful blow: claws digging deep and tearing open the assassin's throat. The man fell soundlessly in a heap at his feet.

Vincent looked down at him and repeated, "We're done here."

And looked up to find himself in the park.

Daylight. And he stood without cover of his cloak in the middle of a wide concrete pathway he recognized as being the one nearest the drainage tunnel leading Below. People passed him on both sides, from ahead and behind, like a river flowing around a single, massive boulder set in its depths. He watched them moving around him, unconcerned. They couldn't see him, for he was no one. Invisible and unimportant.

Vincent studied the flow of humanity with interested eyes: the joggers and the business men in their suits; the mothers pushing strollers filled with sleeping or crying infants; the lovers walking hand in hand. He lifted his face to the sun and watched as a hawk soared high above him, floating on the same currents of air that rustled the foliage around him and whipped chunks of his mane into his face and then away again.

His attention was caught by a man walking straight toward him on the path. A man who could see what the others couldn't. Of average height, with dark hair and a beard, wearing a charcoal gray suit and tugging down the cuffs of his pristine white shirt as he strolled confidently down the walk. Vincent stood, stunned, and stared as the man came to a stop only a few feet away.

"Elliot Burch?" He received a lopsided smile in response.

"Hello, Vincent."

"Why are you here?" he asked, reaching out to grasp Elliot's arm. If he could touch the hunter, bring him down with a blow, why not a gentler contact for the ghost of the man who'd died in his place? A man he'd so come to respect, especially at the end.

He watched, puzzled, as his hand closed around nothing more than air. Elliot was as insubstantial as smoke. He tried a second time, with the same results. Elliot simply stood and watched him, the smile never leaving his face.

Vincent shook his head. "I don't understand."

"That's okay, I'm not quite sure I understand it, either. But I had to find you. I had to tell you."

"Tell me?"

Elliot frowned, glancing up and away, contemplating something. He lifted a finger and said, "Give me a minute. I have to get this right the first time."

Vincent stood patiently and waited. He didn't have anywhere else to be - at least not until he did. And this part of the dream was pleasant enough. There was sunlight on his face and fresh air to draw deeply into his lungs – not like the candle smoke-filled and dusty air of his home Below. The many warm spring Sunday afternoons spent on Diana's rooftop had spoiled him for this.

"Okay, here goes," Elliot said after a time, and closed his eyes in preparation: the better to concentrate, Vincent supposed. He gave Elliot his full attention.

"'We will grieve not. Rather find strength in what remains behind. In the primal sympathy which having been … must ever be. In the soothing thoughts that spring out of human suffering. In the faith that looks through death.'" Elliot opened his eyes and looked up at him then, asking, "Did I get it right?"

He chuffed a surprised chuckle and responded, "Yes, you did. Although … your cadence could use some work."

Elliot laughed. "Eh, poetry was never my forte. I've always been more of a pulp fiction kind of guy. Anyway … she made me promise I'd tell you that, if I ever saw you again."

His heart skipped a beat. "She … You mean Catherine?"

"She was so insistent on you hearing those words. You know how she is, Vincent, once she sets her mind to something. But she wanted you to know."

"Know?" he repeated, slightly stunned. "Know what?"

Elliot reached out and grasped his arm. Strange, that Elliot could do what he could not. He felt genuine affection from the man before him. "That it's okay to be happy. You can grieve, too, but you have to find a way to keep on living, and be happy doing it. She said … because you have an obligation to her now: it's your turn to carry the light."

Vincent rocked back on his feet, feeling as though he'd been punched in the chest.

"Is she here, Elliot? Might I see her? Please … just for a moment."

"I don't think so," Elliot said regretfully. "I'm not really sure how all this works. I don't know, but I don't think so."

"But you're here," he reasoned. Besides, it was _his_ dream: if he could conjure Elliot, then why not Catherine, too? He desperately wanted to see her again.

"Yeah, I guess I am, aren't I? But I have no idea how I got here," Elliot said. "Listen, I don't have a lot of time and there's something else you need to know."

He tried to shake off his sudden melancholy and the renewed, sharp pang of his loss.

"What is it?"

"The assassin was the storm, Vincent. And Gabriel was the tide. But it's the moon … it's the moon that threatens you now. Remember that."

"I don't understand."

"You will, in time." He started to turn away and Vincent knew he was leaving even before Elliot announced, "I have to go. I'm not even supposed to be here."

"Elliot, wait!"

"I can't. I'm sorry. Good-bye, Vincent."

Elliot took perhaps four steps before he simply disappeared, fading into shadows that heralded twilight and the coming night more swiftly than Vincent had ever seen it happen. In two breaths time, his dreamscape had gone from bright and golden to the blurred violet of fading day, the sky etched with smears of clouds of the darkest blues and plums, hanging heavily over a thin horizon of brilliant red. It was, he thought, the exact color of Diana's hair.

"Beautiful, huh?"

He spun around and she was there: tall and slender, dressed in faded jeans, an oversized t-shirt and soft moccasins. Her arms were folded over her chest and most of her hair had stubbornly escaped its careful morning braid - as it was wont to do, despite her best efforts. Soft tendrils of that vivid red curled around her face and neck.

He smiled, looking unflinchingly into her eyes and responded, "Yes, you are … beautiful." It was permissible to say such things to her in dreams. And he often had.

The blush he'd hoped for spread slowly over Diana's cheeks. She jerked a tolerant grin at him and said, "I was talking about the sunset, Vincent."

"Yes. It's beautiful, as well."

"Okay, enough of that, buster. Much as you might love to stand here and watch me go red as a beet - strictly for your own enjoyment, I might add, and _that's _new - we got business to take care of. C'mon." She gestured behind her with a quick tilt of her head and walked away.

So, of course, he followed. He would follow Diana anywhere. Two long strides brought him to her side and they left the path and moved onto the grass. He was content to be doing only this: matching his gait to what he was sensing was her determined one. He didn't need to ask her where they were going: she would tell him in her own time. And he was enjoying the sound of crickets chirping in the warm night air, the dim clamor of traffic outside the park and the green and spicy scent of crushed blades of grass, wet with dew, under his boots. And her quiet company. That, most of all.

After a few minutes he reached out and let his left hand brush against the edge of hers. Her fingers grasped and then threaded between his. They shared a brief look, Diana being the one to break it. But the contact of their hands was enough - was everything. He let his mind wander, not concerned at all for their safety. The park was empty but for the two of them. So it startled him when Diana finally spoke.

"It hasn't been easy, you know: keeping up with you."

He stopped while she kept going, and her forward momentum broke the hold of their clasped hands. She looked back a question at him, as if her statement hadn't required any sort of response. But he found he had one, anyway.

"What do you mean?"

"I owe you a life, Vincent. And I always pay my debts."

His breath caught in this throat and he could only gape at her. Hearing those words, _those words_, leave her mouth instantly took him back to the cage and the haunting memory of Gabriel's skeletal face, twisted and evil.

Diana gave him another look he was too stunned to make sense of and said," Screw this. Let's just get it over with. Race you to the top of the hill," and took off running.

He might have remained rooted to the spot if not for a chilly and sudden foreboding. No matter how little sense what she'd said made to him, he knew in his bones Diana was running toward something awful. He had to be there to face it, with her. He had no choice.

By the time Vincent shook free of his inertia and started after her, Diana was halfway up the gentle slope of the hill. Her hair had come completely free of its braid as she'd raced away from him. Running full out, arms pumping, Diana's swift pace kept it swept back from her face in a heavy curtain of long, dark waves that slapped against her back as she ran. He glanced over as he finally caught up to her and flinched at the joyful, toothy grin she threw his way. He was utterly confused by her words and her behavior - and just as utterly terrified by them.

It was then he spotted the two shapes at the crest of the hill, dark and low to the ground, unmoving. He slowed his long, running strides and at the same time reached out to halt Diana's progress. But she easily slipped free of his hold and gained the top of the hill, stopping between the shapes and looking back, waiting for him.

When he got there she was staring down at what he could see, now that he was close enough, was a man's body: a black man, wearing a green fatigue jacket and blue jeans. Both his face and chest were bloody and torn. Vincent instantly recognized him as one of the three addicts who'd attacked Diana just inside the drainage tunnel here in the park, many months ago. The one he'd swiftly dispatched as the other two had escaped.

As he lifted his eyes in bewilderment to meet hers, Diana asked, "How did you know, Vincent? How did you know I was there? How did you know I was in trouble?"

He hadn't time to think, much less respond, before she turned her attention to the other man sprawled at their feet. It was, of course, Gabriel. Who else could it be? He looked dispassionately down at the lifeless body, feeling nothing more than a vague sense of satisfaction.

"I didn't want to do it, you know, didn't want to kill him," Diana told him quietly. "But I had to: I owed you a life."

"Diana …" He stared at her, aghast.

"And, besides, he deserved it," she went on, either unconcerned or unaware of his distress. "So many of them do. But it wasn't as bad as I thought it would be. And it was easier the second time."

He shook his head to try to clear it. A heaviness had begun to move through him and he was suddenly tired, so very tired. He felt as if he no longer existed within his own body, as though he were somehow outside of it. He squeezed his eyes shut, fighting off a sudden vertigo. He found Diana's steady gaze on him when he again opened them.

"What is happening here?" he implored.

"We started it," she answered sadly, "so now we have to finish it." She closed the distance between them and lifted up on her toes just enough to kiss him directly on the mouth.

"This, too, Vincent. We share this, too."

And then she was gone, racing down the other side of the hill. He could see a crowd of people gathered below, shuffling from side to side or in small circles; moving simply to move, without purpose. And he immediately knew them, each and every one. They were his dead. All the lives he'd taken: in defense of the community Below, in defense of Catherine, in defense of their child.

He bellowed Diana's name in warning. But she ran on, heedless of his cry. Then, as one, the faces of those he'd killed turned in his direction, alerted by his shout, and focused on Diana as she ran headlong into the middle of them and disappeared from sight.

All thought left him, then. He became motion and simple instinct. Reaching the edge of the crowd of bodies, working his way deeper into the gathering of his dead, he slashed and swatted and cuffed; tearing at already dead flesh and re-breaking already broken bones, throwing bodies aside or merely pushing through them on his way to Diana. He caught a glimpse of her titian hair and shoved at the bodies on either side of him, finally opening up an area at the center, where she was.

What Vincent saw before him was nothing of what he'd dreaded. What he saw was enough to cause his blood to run hot and cold: a shiver of primal rage and deepest desire; an infusion that the Other within him reveled in, just as the man he wished to be acknowledged the vision of beauty and otherness before him now.

For instead of being attacked, Diana had become the attacker. And he could only stand and watch as she darted and danced and twirled within the open space of the circle, delivering powerful blows and kicks, knocking back or down anyone who dared come near her. She laughed as she moved - the sound clear and bright in the still night air.

He casually shoved aside a man who'd once threatened Catherine and stepped into the space. Diana stopped long enough to glance over his shoulder, warning him, "Behind you!" just as he was stuck hard across the upper back. He grunted and bent with the blow, spinning as he did and catching his attacker across the lower body, snapping bones and tearing flesh. He ended up with his back to Diana's, and almost at once they were surrounded as the crowd came at them, time and again. And, again, he was transformed to only movement and instinct. But this time he shared it: with Diana, and through her. Together they fought and killed - protected each other, without thought.

And it was glorious.

After a time (an eternity, a second?) he looked around and could find no more opponents for the fiery-hot rage still burning within him. All lay still and silent at his feet. The lack of danger slowly began to extinguish the rage and he became aware of other things: the trembling ache of overused muscles; the sweet and sharp tang of the spilled blood that surrounded him, covered him; the locks of hair that clung to his sweated face and obstructed his vision. He reached to swipe them away and was struck by the different texture and length; not the coarse and heavy strands of his mane, but the silken smoothness of Diana's hair. Her red hair … now his.

Then Vincent looked down, dumbstruck, at his hands. Which were no longer his hands: covered in blood, long and slender fingers flexing; furless and without claws, only pale, freckled skin and nails bitten down short.

He spun wildly, searching, and stopped when he found behind him, not Diana, but himself, staring back with the same bewildered and shocked expression: his perfect reflection.

Vincent woke with a muffled cry and sat straight up in his bed.

**...**

He was pacing his chamber, Jacob tucked tightly upright against his chest, when he felt Diana approaching, her distress almost a tangible thing. He rubbed circles against Jacob's tiny back as the baby began to settle, his quiet whimpers dying down to ragged sighs that puffed warmly against his neck. Vincent whispered nonsense words of comfort to his son, deeply ashamed his nightmare had somehow bled through the wall he'd had to erect early on to keep Jacob from experiencing just this very thing. Theirs was a complete empathic bond, one that worked as acutely either way. Until the boy was older and could be taught to build his own inner walls, Vincent was responsible for protecting them both. He would obviously have to hone his skills beyond what he'd mistakenly thought was sufficient.

And now here was Diana, with her own set of needs, her own dark dreams. She stood just inside the chamber, arms wrapped tightly around her, shivering in the cool tunnel air. She'd clearly come straight from her bed, as evidenced by her lack of clothing. She wore only a nightshirt that ended just above her knobby knees and thick white socks that bunched around her ankles. Their eyes locked for a moment and he tried to convey the necessity of staying calm for Jacob's sake. She gave him a sharp nod and glanced at the baby, staying close to the chamber wall, avoiding the area where he continued to slowly pace as she made her way to his bed. She perched there in the center of it, surrounded by quilts that still held the warmth of his body, hands shoved between her bare legs, her hair tousled with sleep and eyes half-lidded with the same.

A sharp pang of desire surged through him and Vincent immediately locked down on it and shut it away. That was not a complication either of them could afford right now. And more shame flooded through him that he had unwittingly shared with her those darkest of his needs through his dream - which he knew he had somehow pulled her into. Perhaps Father had been right, after all. Perhaps he was the last person who should be attempting to help Diana.

She took that moment to whisper, "If I don't do something soon, I'm gonna bust right out of my skin."

"I'll need a little longer," he responded, matching her soft tone. "Perhaps you could wait for me in your chamber? I'll come for you after Jacob's asleep."

She sketched a nod at him and scurried down the passageway and into the Long Hall beyond.

Vincent joined her in the guest chamber ten minutes later, having made certain Jacob was fully asleep and then taking the time to pull on boots and gather his cloak. He was relieved to find Diana wearing sweatpants and an oversized blue sweater. Her feet were laced into tennis shoes.

Without preliminaries, she asked, "Can we go now?"

He gestured for her to move ahead of him and followed her back out into the Long Hall. Diana glanced over at him. "Which way?"

"Where do you want to go?"

She looked in both directions and then at him. "Anywhere but up in the park, okay? I can't do the park right now."

He didn't have to ask why. But he didn't tell her that. He couldn't just yet; maybe after they'd walked for awhile. Or perhaps she would rather run tonight. The habit they'd acquired over the months of taking long late-night walks or runs hadn't been broken merely because she was now Below. They both enjoyed those times spent together: not talking, just moving. Allowing them the freedom of exercise that required nothing but what limbs and muscles and lungs could give. To simply be alive and to be limited only by what their bodies could endure.

So he asked her, "Fast or slow?"

"Fast. Definitely."

"The upper levels, then," he said and led them in that direction.

It was a little over two hours later, and half that till dawn, when they began to make their way back down the lower levels and toward the Hub. They were still winded and shaky with near-exhaustion from the run that'd taken them through the longest and straightest of the utility tunnels, in what had actually been a wide rectangular path around the perimeter of Central Park. They'd stopped at the sentry post under Belvidere Castle and Vincent had begged a plastic two liter bottle of water from Phillip, which they shared now, passing it back and forth in silence as they walked.

Diana wanted to talk: he could feel her agitation and a dim sense of her waiting for him to ask what'd prompted their late-night run. But he couldn't muster the courage to do so. He wasn't looking forward to what might be said, once he revealed to her what had really happened this evening. So he kept his own counsel, sighing quietly in disgust at his cowardice.

Diana took another long pull from the water bottle and offered it to him. He shook his head and she screwed the cap back on and dropped her arm, the bottle swinging between them.

"I'm sorry I busted in on you like that, but I'm glad you weren't asleep," she said, finally breaking the silence. "I didn't wanna wake you up, but I would've. I had a pretty strange dream and I needed to see you. I needed …"

She trailed off and he looked over at her. Her expression was open, unguarded, and she appeared so very young. Her face was still flushed from the run and he could see the sheen of perspiration clinging to the smooth skin above her upper lip. He tamped down the sudden urge to lean in and lick it away. It occurred to him how incongruous it was, that the woman at his side could both frighten and arouse him in equal measure and often simultaneously. And then he thought perhaps it wasn't strange at all.

"You have no reason to apologize, Diana, and no need to explain. I'd thought we'd gotten past that sort of politeness."

She answered him with a hint of a smile. "Yeah, I guess we have. So is the baby okay? I mean, he was fussing when I came in."

"Just ... a bad dream."

"What could a little peanut like him have to worry about, that he'd have bad –" She stopped mid-stride and threw her arm out to block his progress. The water bottle swung and thumped him in the stomach. He looked a question at her.

"You don't think it was me, do you?" She was appalled by the possibility. "That he picked up on what I was dreaming?"

"No, no," he quickly assured her. "His gift is not that keen, nor as precise as all that. His perception - what he senses - is more diffuse, I believe, than is mine. Except," he added with a deep sigh, "for what he picks up from me, of course."

"Direct line there, huh?"

"Yes. It can be … challenging, at times. In a number of ways."

"I'll bet," she responded with a very unladylike snort.

They traded wry, quiet grins and started walking again. After a few seconds he pulled in a deep breath and forced himself to ask, "Do you want to tell me, then, about the dream?"

He glanced at her and caught her tugging her bottom lip between her teeth. He just as quickly looked away.

She thought for awhile and then: "It was … strange; almost like I came into the middle of it. Like watching a movie you've never seen before, but missing the first few acts ...?"

He acknowledged her analogy with a small nod.

"We were in the park, at night, just the two us. Nobody else around. Just taking a walk, you know? And then I was running like hell up Cedar Hill and you were coming up behind me. And I got to the top and stopped, 'cause there were two bodies up there … just lying there. One of them was Gabriel."

She paused and glanced at him, making sure he was all right with her saying the name so matter-of-factly; as though it might still have some sort of power over him. It didn't. Gabriel was dead and could do him no more harm. And his death wasn't one belonging to Vincent and that he was condemned to carry within him always - unlike the rest of them, which he was.

Diana read his carefully neutral expression and continued, "The other one … it was the guy from the drainage tunnel. From that time right after we met, when …? Yeah," she said determinedly, calling a halt to that particular memory. "Anyway, that's when it started to get really weird."

"Weird, how?"

She shook her head, mouth pulling into a tight line, and lifted her empty hand in a vague gesture. "We said some things to each other, I dunno, things. And then …" Another sharp glance at him. "And then I kissed you. And I took off down the other side of the hill. And ran right into the middle of Hell."

Diana stopped and turned, moving to the outer curve of the passageway, between two candles burning in their sconces, and bent to set the water bottle down. She straightened, leaning back against the tunnel wall, arms at her side and palms flat on the rough stone, fingers absently tapping. She met and held his eye.

"At least it started out as Hell," she went on, now that she knew she had his full attention. But she'd had that all along. "A lot of people, people I didn't know, a whole crowd of them. But I knew how they made me feel: scared at first, and then pissed. Well and truly. And I started to fight them, because they were coming after me, wanted to hurt me. And it worked," she added, eyebrows lifting in remembered surprise, "I started to gain the advantage. I was like a goddam machine, Vincent. I don't even remember how I did it. I just knew what I needed to do and it happened – like instinct, maybe. And then you were there. With me."

He took two steps in reverse and found the solidity of the tunnel wall against his back. He stood directly across from her. A distance of perhaps six feet separated them, though he found himself wishing for twice that, so the intensity of Diana's eyes wouldn't be quite so powerful a thing.

"That part of it was …" she hesitated and flushed anew. "I don't know. Yeah, I do. It was incredible. It was like nothing I'd ever felt before. You were there with me and you were fighting, like I was, just kicking ass all over the place and we were back to back and I could feel you so solid against me and all around me and I could feel what you were feeling and it was just so incredible. I did my share of happy drugs when I was in college, but nothing I felt then could compare. I've never felt as alive as I did right then, with you."

His eyes shut in a long, slow blink. When he opened them, he saw she was still focused on him, but her eyes had gone dark with confusion.

"And then it ended: the fighting stopped. Just like that, it was over. I turned to look for you and–"

"Diana." He had to stop her. He didn't need to hear more. "The dream you had …" He helplessly lifted his hands and let them drop. "It was mine. I know how it ends … because it was mine. Not yours."

That wasn't precisely right. So he tried again: "No, it was of my making. But somehow … somehow I pulled you into it. So, at the end, it was your dream as well. We shared it. And I'm so very sorry. You have no idea how sorry …"

She blinked at him. "Say again?"

"I've done this to you. The dream tonight and what has come before: I've done this to you. Somehow I've awakened something in you that should've been allowed to sleep, that was never meant to be a part of you. The things you experienced tonight as you dreamt, the feelings you had … they were mine." He swallowed past a lump in his throat, hung his head and choked out, "I've poisoned you with my darkness."

"You mean … Wait a minute, let me get this straight. Are you saying what I felt … Vincent, look at me? Please?"

He dutifully raised his head. But he couldn't face her straight on. He was too ashamed. So he studied the tunnel wall just to the right of where she stood.

"Is that what … My God, Vincent is that what it feels like to you, when you … lose yourself?"

"Yes," he whispered. He didn't know what to expect now. He just knew it would be awful. He was so mortified he couldn't even begin to try sensing what she was feeling. He was too lost in his own waking nightmare, with no hope of salvation. She would condemn him, surely. And then he would be alone again. But what she did next was nothing like what he'd expected - nothing.

"Jesus, no wonder you're the way you are," she said, and laughed. _Laughed!_ "How could you be anything else?"

"Diana!" His eyes locked onto hers, flinching as if he'd been poked by a cattle prod.

She shoved away from the wall and closed half the distance between them. He tried to push himself through the wall at his back, but it had no give. He was trapped, in front and behind: by her unflinching gaze and by stone that'd had an eternity to learn how to be absolutely unyielding.

"No, it makes perfect sense," she went on, as though he weren't slowly dying right in front of her. "Of course: it's just part of who you are, how you're made. You're a predator, Vincent, a hunter, just like me - except you got all your weapons built in. When you cut loose like that, it's all instinct, no thought. It's just the body doing what the body was made to do, the part of you that reacts to threat with no thought other than eliminating it."

She took another step toward him, only an arm's length apart now, and he had to fight the urge to twist away from the wall and flee. It was as if he'd been placed under a microscope to be examined and judged. And not by some stranger either, but by one of the four people he cared most about in the world. Vincent glanced down the passageway, instantly knowing where they were and if Diana might be able to find her way back on her own. But then she lifted her left arm and braced it on the wall next to him. Only one direction left open for escape now.

"But then there's this other part that's the most compassionate and selfless, the kindest and gentlest and most loving man I've ever known," she continued. "The one who goes all sappy at a poem or a bunch of kids sawing away on violins down in Father's study - or a goddam bouquet of wildflowers. And even then it's flat-out for you: everything you've got. Whatever you're feeling, no matter what it is, you feel it in every single part of you. Everywhere.

"Don't you see, Vincent? You're the way you are because of _who_ you are. There's no earthly way such perfect contradictions could be shoved into something as ordinary as this." She made a sweeping gesture down the length of her body. "The way you look, the way you're built, the way you move, the way you think - except when you don't - everything about you. It's extraordinary because _you're_ extraordinary."

A quiet voice in his head took that moment to remind him she'd dropped her arms, that escape would be easier now. But a second, more insistent, voice wanted to stay, to hear her out, because what she was saying wasn't so awful, after all.

"I know what it's like to get inside someone's head," she said quietly, intently. "I know what it is to know what they're feeling, even thinking, sometimes. But nothing like tonight. To know it so intimately, so completely. To feel what it is to be _you_. To give everything you have, everything you are. My God …"

She reached out and grabbed his hand before he had a chance to react. His head snapped back against the rock, reeling from the depth and strength of what he felt from her, through that simple touch. It wasn't the outrage or fear or disgust he'd dreaded: it was bright and shining and pure. She lifted his hand and laid it palm down against her chest, over her heart.

"_This_ is what you've done to me," she declared. "You've given me a part of yourself. And I'll treasure it forever. Thank you."

Her heart beat like the wings of a hummingbird within her chest. And as she peered up at him, wide sea foam eyes filled with acceptance, he flashed back to the end of the dream and the inescapable truth of the reflection he'd found. He became aware of more than just her heartbeat then: he could feel the cushioned softness of her breast against the edge of his hand and wished for more of that touch. Remembered their kiss in the dream and her declaration to him:

_This, too, Vincent. We share this, too._

He looked into Diana's eyes and let himself drown there, falling into their depths with no thought or reasoning, only a desire to crawl deep inside her soul and stay there, safe and warm and unconditionally loved. And then knew he wanted even more than that, more than he'd ever dreamed possible. He wanted to have her right there, up against the rough rock walls of his home; truly become one with her and give her everything he was. Knowing without doubt she would welcome him and give all she was in return, and he all that could take, and all that he would ever need.

Vincent reached for her just as she lifted his hand from her chest and stepped away. He could only watch dazedly as she collected the water bottle and turned back to him.

"Do you suppose William is banging pans in the Commons yet?" she asked, her voice trembling just the slightest bit. "I'm starving."

She walked away, taking several steps before realizing he hadn't moved. She turned, looking back over her shoulder at him. "You coming?"

He grunted out a held breath and pushed off from the wall, moving to join her. And as they made their way to the Hub - their strides matched in length and speed alike, in perfect rhythm - Vincent knew in the deepest part of who he was that they were both doomed.

But at least they might be doomed together.

**...**

The rest of that day and the next several passed uneventfully, if Diana staying Below could ever be classified as uneventful. It was very different for Vincent to have her so near and be always aware of that nearness, yet feel in her the same disciplined isolation she practiced in her life Above. He supposed he'd expected that to change in some way; when it didn't he decided there was nothing to do but simply accept it. What else could be done?

There had been no further discussion about their shared dream, the aftermath and the ramifications. She seemed content to leave things as they'd left them and he wasn't especially anxious to bring it up, either. As with so much between them, the event spoke for itself and was merely another thread woven into the pattern of what they were becoming.

After making a concerted effort, on her first full day Below, to include Diana in his daily routine, she'd made it plain to him she wouldn't be coddled or fussed over, not even for his benefit. She'd asked him to draw a map to Cullen's workshop and had disappeared for the remainder of the day, showing up in the Commons for the evening meal with wood shavings in her hair and proudly displaying a nasty cut across the first two knuckles of her left hand. Cullen was teaching her to carve wood, she'd happily announced. The rest of the evening had been spent in the study, Diana and Father immersed in a fierce game of Scrabble as Vincent attempted to keep an ever-curious and creeping Jacob from serious injury. Father's study was not what any parent might consider baby-proof and Vincent often found himself wondering how any small child, himself included, had survived more than a few hours there.

The following days found Vincent going about his work and occasionally looking up to find Diana near: at the Mirror Pool, legs dangling over the edge and swinging like metronomes, her nose buried in a fat book; at a table in the Commons, chewing and swallowing food automatically as she gazed off at something he suspected might only exist in her head; poking around in Mouse's chamber as the teenager watched her with nervous curiosity; in the nursery surrounded by small people, Jacob tucked into the hollow of her crossed and folded legs as she read from a storybook; arguing with Father over the necessity of government-funded social welfare in the world Above - or the foolishness of it, depending on which of them was shouting at the moment. And, once, in a still-life pose that flooded his heart and mind with a bittersweet memory: curled up napping in a large armchair in the guest chamber, her long pony legs tucked close and her hands cupped and slightly open, as though waiting for a gift to be handed her.

Some evenings she would join him and Jacob wherever they were, generally in Father's study or his own chamber, and then walk with him as he did sentry rounds and checked the perimeter of the Hub, after the baby had been put to bed. It was in those moments he would encourage her to talk about the events that'd led to his offer of sanctuary Below. She was equally as likely to do so as to flatly refuse. He didn't pressure her either way. Other nights Diana was nowhere to be found and obviously keeping her own counsel. She knew her way around the Hub well enough that he didn't worry about her safety, and she'd learned rudimentary pipe code over the months and could call for help if needed. Vincent gave her time and space, knowing these gifts for the powerful healers they were.

This evening Vincent had collected Jacob from the nursery and gone to his chamber to wash up before supper. Sitting on the small table in the middle of the room, on a stack of books, was a circular, open wooden frame the diameter of a tea cup, crisscrossed in a web-like delicate pattern of blue string and trailing long leather cords, each threaded with a single wooden bead and knotted at the end. Attached to the top of the circle was a shorter cord with a hook for hanging. Vincent picked it up by that cord and studied it, absently moving it out of Jacob's reach as it was grabbed for.

"It's very pretty, isn't it, Jacob?"

That elicited a stream of babbling and then a serious study of the object. "Pah tah!" Jacob ultimately decided.

"Exactly so. Now, here's a note," Vincent said and laid down the whatever-it-was to pick up the piece of notepaper beside it. Recognizing Diana's hurried scrawl, he carried Jacob to the bed and set him in the middle of it, grabbing a small stuffed rabbit and a plastic ring of keys from a basket next to the bed. The baby was soon happily gnawing on the rabbit's ear while Vincent read Diana's message.

**V-**

**I spent the afternoon with the older kids doing art projects. Yeah, you read that right. Bet that's something you never thought you'd hear.**

**It's called a dreamcatcher and you're supposed to hang it over your bed. The Chippewa Indians believe it can change a person's dreams. According to them, only good dreams are allowed to filter through it, and bad dreams stay in the net and disappear with the dawn.**

**I have to go topside in the morning. I have a review board hearing at 11. It's not a big deal, so don't worry about it. Just one of the hoops I have to jump through before they'll let me back on active duty. I may stay up top for the time being, depending on what happens.**

**I'm not feeling much up for company tonight, so don't come looking for me. I'll try to find you before I have to leave tomorrow. If not, you know where I live. The door is always open.**

**D**

Vincent's heart sank and he couldn't stop the pang of disappointment. He'd known nothing about the hearing she'd mentioned: she'd chosen not to share that with him. She had also chosen not to spend what could be her last night Below with him. He'd known her leaving was inevitable: she belonged to the world Above as much as Catherine had. But he'd hoped for more time with Diana to explore and help her find a way to control the darkness he'd felt growing in her. He berated himself for not being more insistent and wasting what little time they'd had together.

But then, he thought pragmatically, there wasn't a person born who could make Diana do anything she'd set her mind not to do. While she'd shared some of her thoughts and feelings with him, he was aware they were only a fragment of the whole.

"Diana is returning Above," he told Jacob.

His son gazed at him solemnly and pulled the soggy cloth ear from his mouth. He crawled closer to Vincent and straightened up, pulling himself to his knees. Sitting back on his heels, he braced his arms against his father's thigh and peered up at him in question.

"Di?" he asked

Vincent gave Jacob a quiet smile and caressed the side of his face with the back of a hand. "Yes, Diana. She's leaving, but you'll see her again soon, I promise. And she's left us with a wonderful gift. We'll have to find just the right place to hang it before bed, won't we?"

And they did. By the time he'd tucked Jacob in later that evening, the dreamcatcher was hanging from the uppermost curve of the carved headboard of the cradle, secured by the smallest wood nail Cullen had been able to find.

Vincent extinguished all but a few of the candles in the chamber and readied himself for bed. Though it was still relatively early, he didn't feel much like company, either. He decided he'd read in bed for awhile. He had a rare night off from sentry rounds: Jamie having insisted that, as his apprentice, she would welcome the opportunity to relieve him of that duty for one night, at least. Vincent knew she'd been slightly put out about having her usual position at his side taken over by Diana on some of the past few evenings and he'd quickly accepted the offer, considering it small recompense for the hurt feelings he'd caused Jamie.

Slipping into a loose white shirt and gray cotton pajama pants worn thin and soft with age, Vincent pulled on clean, heavy white socks and settled under the quilts with a collection of Rilke. He was just beginning the first of the letters when his eyes grew heavy and the book fell from his hands and dropped to the floor with a muffled thud. He was asleep before he even knew it.

He woke sometime later, instantly alert, when a small weight settled on the edge of the bed. It was Diana. How fitting she'd been able to slip into his chamber without him sensing her presence, even in sleep. Father could do that, and Catherine, as well. He absently noted it was those he had an absolute measure of trust in who were able to bypass his otherwise keen senses; to, in essence, sneak up on him.

He lifted up on an elbow and blinked at her. She peered back with one eye while rubbing at the other with the edge of a fist. "Guess it was just mine this time," she muttered.

"Diana?"

"Just a 'gotcha' dream," she explained. "I should have made two of those damn dreamcatchers."

"Are you all right?"

"I will be."

The few candles Vincent had left lit were burned out and the only illumination in the chamber came from the stained glass window next to his bed and the meager artificial light from the hanging lamp in the middle of the ceiling. Their voices were pitched low as they talked and Vincent was still half-caught up in the warm lethargy of sleep. He didn't try to rouse himself overly much: there was no danger here.

"Do you want to tell me about it?" he asked. He watched as she succumbed to a huge yawn, her jaw popping with the effort.

"Nope. But you can scooch over," she said.

"I'm sorry?"

"Scoot over a little bit, gimme some room," she repeated as she threw back the quilts covering him. She twisted and began to lie down and Vincent automatically shifted toward the other edge of the bed, making room for her as she swung her legs up and settled down beside him. She pulled the quilts back over them and then tugged at the arm he was braced on. He fell back gracelessly as she pulled it out from under him and drew it up under her neck, using his bicep as a pillow.

He ended up on his side, Diana's back pressed against his chest. She reached back under the quilts and grabbed his left arm, pulling it across her. Her hand slid around his wrist and tugged as she lifted enough to tuck his hand between her side and the mattress, effectively trapping his arm around her. Vincent could feel the delicate bones of her ribcage through her nightshirt.

He didn't dare move. He had never lain next to a woman like this, tucked up so closely from heel to shoulder. _Never._ At least no time he could remember clearly, or at all. Once, with Catherine, as he lay racked with delirious dreams in her bed, at the apex of his descent into madness. And another time, unmistakably so: the evidence of that occasion lay sleeping in the cradle next to his bed. But never like this: never so casually - though that was all on Diana's part, to be sure.

She turned her head into the arm she lay pillowed on and scrubbed her face against it. Her chest rose and fell in a deep sigh and she whispered, "Make sure you wake me up if you decide to start groping me. I don't wanna miss anything." Another few deep breaths and he felt her slip from the here and now into the gentle oblivion of sleep.

He thought – no, he _knew_ – he would get no more rest this night. He was absolutely rigid with a hyper-vigilant control he'd never practiced before - he'd never had to. Now every breath was cautiously measured, every desire of a muscle to move instantly denied. But the hand curved round her ribcage began to betray him as his fingers gently flexed to explore that small space of Diana. After several minutes, despite his caution and best intentions, he felt himself relaxing into her and the cushion of his bed. His chamber was cool and still. And Diana so warm and soft, her body curved perfectly to his. He finally allowed himself to close his eyes and breathe more deeply.

Vincent was on the very edge of sleep when Diana stirred against him and mumbled, "Maxwell, you gotta trust me. Let it be."

He tightened his arm around her, pulling her even more snugly against him and murmured, "Hush now. Sleep."

Diana went still again and Vincent followed her down less than a minute later, his nose buried in her fragrant hair. When he woke the next morning, she was gone.

**...**

Two days passed without a word, then three. On the evening of the fourth day, Vincent made his way to Diana's building and to her rooftop. He stood indecisively in front of her tall, narrow windows, his view into the loft blocked by shades. His hand lifted several times to tap against the glass and then dropped without doing so.

Why was it so hard to take her at her word? She'd told him almost from the beginning, and again three days back, that her door would always be open. Implicit in that statement was that he need not announce his presence before entering her home, that he should just come in. Surely Diana would make certain to lock the upper door if she had guests or was doing something that required privacy, so he didn't surprise her at an inopportune moment. He didn't allow himself to consider what those private things might be. He had always tapped at her window first, regardless of the open invitation.

But he found he didn't want to now. Somehow what had happened the night before she'd come back Above had left him with a sense of possessiveness he hadn't allowed before. _So_, he scolded himself, _use the door._

Mind made up, he strode to it and turned the knob. It was unlocked. He determinedly pushed it open and walked through. He made his steps heavier than normal as he descended the stairs, wanting to give Diana some kind of warning. He navigated her tiny vestibule, with its door that opened to a second set of stairs leading down, and stopped in the doorway of her loft.

Diana stood with her back to him in front of the wall she used to tack up photos and reports and the various pieces of people's lives. _"That wall is my work,"_ she'd told him on his third day there, recovering from the explosion of the _Compass Rose, _and what had been his first day of real awareness of where he was - and who she was. The wall was no longer empty, as it had been the evening he'd persuaded her to come Below. So she was working again.

He was about to call her name when she unfolded an arm from her chest and crooked a finger at him without turning.

"C'mere a minute. I want you to look at something."

Vincent pulled back the hood of his cloak and shrugged out of it, draping it on the coat rack by the elevator. He went to stand beside her, his hands held loosely behind his back.

"What do you see?" Diana asked.

He threw a small glance her way first and then focused on the wall.

"A man and a woman," he told her. "Murdered. Shot?"

Diana nodded.

"They look to be at home." He went quiet for a while, studying the other crime scene photos, thinking. "They were comfortable. They felt safe and were caught unaware by the attack." His eyes moved to a color photograph of a family: father, mother, and two children. All blonde and blue-eyed, the son perhaps fourteen or fifteen, the daughter a few years younger; all wearing the artificial smiles he'd seen in other such portraits.

"The children?"

"Missing," Diana answered. "Murder weapon was found at the scene. The dad's gun. Had the boy's fingerprints all over it. Kid's got a juvie record." She pointed at a print-out on the wall and Vincent leaned in to read it. "Vandalism; shoplifting; truancy; nothing violent, nothing but typical kid stuff … acting out. All part of the age, right?"

"But the evidence points to this boy?" he asked.

"Yep." Diana squeezed the bridge of her nose between thumb and forefinger. "So what makes a kid who by all accounts is a good kid, other than being an occasional pain in the ass, pick up a gun, blow away his parents and then take off with his little sister?"

"You're trying to find them?"

"Yeah. If I can figure out why he did it, maybe I can figure out where they're holed up." Diana dragged her attention away from the wall and gave him a wan smile, reaching out to pat a hello against his back. "I'm glad you're here: it'll give me an excuse to take a break. I'm getting nowhere on this."

She pivoted, pushing the rolling computer chair out of her way as she went. Vincent followed her into the living area of the loft as she dropped bonelessly onto the couch and slumped down, long, blue jean-covered legs stretching out straight. She was wearing a forest green blouse that made her hair and eyes almost too brilliant to look upon.

Diana peered up at him. "So how are things in the Great and Mystical Subterranean Otherworld?" They swapped smiles at the term she'd adopted for his home not long after she'd attended Winterfest.

"All is well," he told her. "Quiet. I was concerned. I was hoping I'd have some word by now of how things had gone for you … at your hearing."

"Sorry about that. I should have sent down a note." Diana reached back and pulled loose the thick cord confining her hair. It spilled over her shoulders in tousled waves for a few brief moments before she pulled it back and retied it. Vincent wished she'd left it down, instead.

"Well, obviously I'm back on the duty roster," she said, waving at the wall containing her work board. "Maxwell was at the hearing and put in a good word for me. It helps to have friends in high places. But I gotta eat the three weeks I was off: unpaid leave. Good-bye, vacation fund. And I had to go talk to some shrink before I could convince Hannety – my watch commander at the 210? - I was good for more than desk duty and get my weapon back."

Diana studied him for a long minute. He felt the challenge in her but refused to rise to it. She finally looked aside and went back to massaging the bridge of her nose.

"It was a righteous shooting, Vincent. The review board cleared me. Internal Affairs is satisfied by the ruling. The shrink says I'm not nearly as crazy as some people think I am." She gave him another long look. "You didn't see him, Vincent: Conrad was huge. Had to go six eight, six nine and a solid three-fifty. Just me and him in that room. If I hadn't gone for my gun when I did, he would've squashed me like a bug. Self-defense, plain and simple. End of story."

He didn't believe it any more than she did. But he also didn't feel up to a debate he knew neither of them would end up conceding. Not tonight, anyway. So he made his way to the kitchen and carried the dented stainless steel kettle to the sink to fill it with fresh water.

"I'm making tea. Would you like some?"

"No, thanks," she said over her shoulder. "But I'll take a couple fingers of Jameson on ice while you're there. Bottle's on the counter: the green one."

Vincent set the kettle on the burner and turned it on high. He retrieved a mug and tea bag from the cabinet and grabbed a squat glass tumbler from the dish rack to the side of the sink. He was rooting in the freezer for the ice cube tray when Diana took up the conversation again.

"So I came home and caught up on stuff around here. Paid some bills, swept up some dust bunnies, washed my undies, you know." Vincent reached over the back of the couch and handed her the tumbler of whisky. "Thanks. Then Hannety sent over some files and asked me to take a look. And here I am …"

He stepped back to the stove and waited for the water to get hot. Though he could've responded to what she'd said, there was really no need. He found himself content at the moment to let Diana carry the bulk of the conversation. Besides, he was mulling over the bits and pieces of the case she'd presented him.

As if reading his mind she said, "The dad had a reputation for having a short fuse. But nothing the cops had to get involved in. Just shouting matches every once in a while. And a couple disputes with one of the neighbors. Nobody saw any evidence of domestic violence."

He poured hot water into the mug and dipped the tea bag several times. It wasn't the steeped tea he was used to Below, but with enough honey added it was good enough to pass.

"You've checked the boy's medical records?"

"Way ahead of you, buster. Just the usual spills and scrapes."

"And his sister?"

"Same thing. Nothing that jumped out at me."

Vincent stirred honey into his tea and went to join her. Diana pulled her legs up so he could settle on the floor before her. He blew into the mug and took a cautious sip.

"Still, Diana. Not all abuse is easily seen … or recognized. What do you know of the girl?"

She took a swallow of the whisky and rattled the ice cubes against the side of the glass.

"From all accounts she's the polar opposite of her brother. Straight As in school, well-mannered, well-behaved. Quiet. Shy. Likely as not to jump out of her skin if you look at her fu–"

Their eyes locked in an abrupt and shared realization.

"Goddam it!" Diana shouted. "That's it! Good old daddy was messing around with his daughter and big brother decided he'd had enough and took care of the problem. Likely as not, from the way he unloaded the gun into her, mom knew what was going on and hadn't done squat to stop it either. Damn it!"

She drained the rest of her glass and set it on the wicker trunk next to him. "Okay, now it's starting to make more sense. Thank you, Vincent, you're brilliant."

"I did nothing, Diana, but ask a few questions."

She knocked her head with a fist. "You rattled things around up here. I needed that. Sometimes I get too close to see what's right in front of me."

Suddenly what she'd said wasn't about her newest case anymore. Diana leaned over and grabbed one of the ties at the shoulder of his vest, gently tugging on it.

"I'm okay, Vincent," she said quietly. "Really. It helped: coming Below for awhile. I needed that kind of distance to start to work it out in my head."

She settled back into her slump on the couch. "And thanks for the other night, too. You get used to having somebody in the bed with you and it's tough when you have a bad night and there's nobody there anymore. I'm sure you know how it is. So … thanks for sharing your bed with me."

He dipped his head, admitting, "I _don't_ know how it is," the words leaving his mouth before he'd had time to consider them. He glanced at her warily and saw the question in her eyes. "I don't know what it's like … to share an evening's bed with a woman. Or I didn't, rather, until three nights past."

He could almost hear the gears turning in Diana's head. He hadn't really meant to take them down this path, but here they were. After a minute she got up to freshen her drink. She dropped another ice cube into the amber liquid and considered him.

"Well, I suppose it makes sense," she said. "If you spent the night at Cathy's you'd be stuck there all day. So … what? Father's got a problem with you having overnight guests? I knew he was nothing more than a puritan in socialist's clothing. No offense," she quickly added. "I just call them like I see them."

"Father has no objection to any consenting adult within the community doing whatever they choose to do in the privacy of their own chamber. And I'll grant you the kindness of overlooking your rather simplistic description. This has nothing to do with Father."

That wasn't precisely true, he admitted to himself. But the conversation was already fraught with enough potential landmines. He didn't intend to plant any more. He looked over to find her still at the island, patiently waiting for him to tell her what it _did_ have to do with. He sighed and drew a knee up to his chest, wrapping his arms around it.

"Diana, if you must know … Catherine and I weren't lovers … in that way."

She did a double-take and blurted, "What the hell are you talking about? There's a baby sleeping down in the tunnels, remember? Name's Jacob – he's got your eyes. Where'd he come from: fairy dust?"

His face felt absolutely incandescent. But Vincent forced himself to stay focused on her bewildered eyes. "It was only just the once. I have no memory of it, none."

She gaped at him.

"I can see how difficult this must be for you to believe, but it's the truth, Diana."

She came around the island and hesitated for a short time before taking a spot back on the edge of the couch. She looked at him intently and suggested, "Maybe you should tell me the whole story, because I'm way behind here. I'm completely lost."

So he told her. Beginning with Paracelsus and the reporter, Bernie Spirko, and ending with the totality of the loss of himself and the cave he'd retreated to in order to die. Then he told her of how Catherine had come to him and saved him - at the cost of their bond; his loss of memory during the event and afterwards, temporarily, of his empathic gift. The peacefulness he'd felt that had quickly turned to terror when Catherine had disappeared and he'd had no sense of her to guide him to her rescue. Vincent filled in all the pieces that'd been missing from what he'd related to her over the months; the things he hadn't been able to say until now. He left out none of the details - and what he didn't think to say, Diana asked.

What had begun as a painful but truthful accounting was, by the end, strangely liberating. He'd never before told anyone all of what had happened. Not even Father knew everything. But there was no one in the world he trusted more to hear his story and accept the whole of it - and him -than Diana. No one more deserved it.

When he finished they both were quiet for a time, lost in their own thoughts. Then Diana levered off the couch and headed back to the kitchen. She refilled her glass and fetched another from the cabinet.

"You had champagne at Kanin's homecoming party, right?" she asked. She filled the second glass and brought both over to the couch, offering him one as she sat down. He took it without thought. "So you can drink alcohol without any adverse effects?"

"Yes. I just choose not to, with the rare exception."

"Well, make this one of them. Because after what you just told me, I think we could both use a stiff drink." She clinked her glass against his and raised it to her lips.

Because she expected him to, he first sniffed the whisky and then swallowed down half of it. It burned like fire on his tongue, and as it worked its way down his throat, he choked and sputtered, his eyes watering as he raised them to the ceiling.

Vincent blinked several times and then looked at her in astonishment. "Why do you drink this? It's horrid!"

"Hey, that's some fine sipping whisky right there, my friend. I drink it because I'm Irish and I'm a cop. It's a requirement."

She clinked her glass against his a second time and toasted, "L'chaim."

"Are you Jewish, as well?"

Diana whooped a laugh and he couldn't help but chuckle with her.

"I'm whatever I need to be," she told him as her laughter trailed off. "Drink up. I promise the second half will go down easier."

Vincent discovered it didn't, but at least he was prepared for what was to come when he emptied his glass. The fire settled in his stomach and burned warmly there.

"So let me make sure I've got this right," Diana said. "The only time you and Cathy ever had sex was when you were completely off your rocker. And you don't remember any of it."

"With all brevity, yes, that's correct."

"There was never anybody before her? None of the women down in the Tunnels you took a fancy to and vice-versa? No friends with benefits?"

He didn't understand the last but simply shook his head. He felt Diana's disbelief but there was nothing to be done for it. The truth was just that.

"Never?"

Vincent let his silence be answer.

"I don't get it," she said after a long time. "Why not?"

"You've seen what these hands can do." He held them out for her to view and flashed back to a night on Catherine's terrace:

"_These hands are beautiful," _she'd told him then_. "These are my hands."_

He pulled himself back to the present and found Diana looking at him curiously.

"Well, yeah, sure," she dismissed, "when you're in attack mode, but that's different. Not even after what happened in the cave, when you knew it was safe?"

"It cannot ever be entirely safe: not for me. And I've told you, I had no memory of it. I didn't know any of it until I found Catherine, as she was dying and told me what had happened and of our child. Even then there was a period of time between the hearing of it and knowing it to be true. My grief was too enormous to even begin to contemplate it."

Diana sat back and scrubbed her face, closing her eyes and tipping her head against the edge of the couch. "Feel free to set me straight here, but I'm assuming she came out of that cave in one piece and no worse for the wear, right?"

"It would seem so. My memories of the time immediately after the cave are still foggy, indistinct."

Diana opened her eyes and pinned him with an inquisitive look. "Cathy never … initiated anything afterwards, between that one time and when she was kidnapped?"

"No," he admitted. "Perhaps she considered it a kindness not to burden me with the knowledge or to force it upon me in any way. I was already disoriented with what Father believes was a form of agnosia."

"_Would_ it have been forcing, though?" Diana asked, sitting up again. "I'm curious about your end of it. There's no … desire there?"

"Oh, there is desire … frequently," he admitted with downcast eyes. "More so now that I've begun to recognize the different needs within the duality of who I am, since the cave and the madness, and learned what is acceptable for me … and normal. But people are so fragile. And I know whatI am."

"So do I, Vincent. Remember our dream?" He raised his eyes to her. "I know you pretty damn well myself, now. And I can't believe you would ever hurt someone you love like that. You don't have it in you."

"I wish that were so," he responded. "But I know better. I know what can happen when I … lose myself."

"Again, yeah: when you're facing a threat. But sex isn't a threat. At least it's not supposed to be, when you're with someone you care about. And you obviously didn't hurt Cathy." He felt a flash of irritation in Diana. But not directed at him. "So if you don't have first-hand knowledge that you're liable to tear a woman to pieces having sex, then at some point in time someone must have told you-"

Vincent already knew where this would lead even before Diana chuffed in disgust and finished her thought. "Wait, let me guess … No, never mind. I think we both know who convinced you of that."

"Diana, you mustn't blame Father," he beseeched. "What I was taught to believe about myself, how he raised me, it was to protect me. What he did was done in love, and was limited by the slight knowledge he had of what he was faced with. Not even knowledge, in fact, but merely speculation."

She abruptly shoved off the couch and began to pace between the kitchen and the elevator. He understood her frustration. There was nothing he could do but give her the time to work through it.

She finally stopped and faced him, her arms lifting high and then dropping as she said, "Just about the time I think I got this all figured out, something else happens and I realize I don't know anything. Your world and everybody in it ... It's all so … strange. And beautiful. And magical. And so _different_. Sometimes I don't think I'll ever get to the end of the weird down there."

And then there is me," Vincent offered quietly. "Who is the strangest of all, the most different."

"No," she exclaimed, "it's not that at all! You're the _only_ thing that makes sense to me anymore, don't you know that? And all this time I been thinking you just weren't interested in me. That maybe I wasn't your type or something, I don't know. Because I could have sworn on my mother's grave, God rest her soul, there was something there between us, but you're always so damned …"

She trailed off and glared at him helplessly. "What's the word I'm looking for here, Vincent? Help me out."

"Vigilant?" he suggested.

Diana snapped her fingers. "Yes! Vigilant. And cautious. And so immovable. Sometimes I wonder if anything I do ever gets through that steel exterior of yours and registers inside."

"Oh, it registers, Diana; and you, more than anyone else, is able to get through. But I am vigilant because I must be. It's the only way I can protect those I … those I love."

They exchanged cautious looks. It wasn't that Vincent didn't want Diana to know the depth of his feelings for her. It was that he didn't want her to be laden by them. As with so many things in his life, he had no choice in this. Whether his love was felt in kind, his newest and most frail dreams shared, he couldn't stop loving her. He didn't know how. But perhaps she still had a choice.

Finally she lifted a hand and rested it on the pale, bare skin below the hollow of her throat. The shadows of her loft made imprecise the sharp angles of her slender frame and turned them instead into a soft palette of blue and green and red. Her features were open and relaxed and so very dear to him as she contemplated his words. He waited silently and hoped.

"Well," she said, after what felt like an eternity, "We got that going for us, anyway. It's a start. But don't you ever want more?"

"Beyond measure," he confessed. "I'm learning there are things possible for me I never dared dream of. But the way is uncharted, Diana, and so much is unknown. We must take great care."

He watched as she headed into the kitchen and grabbed the bottle of whisky. She brought it to where he sat and joined him on the floor, facing him, her back to the couch. She folded her legs in front of her and made a ritual of pouring an equal amount into each glass and then handing him one. Then she leaned in and kissed him: a long, soft, inquisitive kiss that made his head spin and the warmth of the whisky already in his belly to flare and spread throughout his body.

Diana pulled back and he forced his eyes open to find her with glass raised, waiting for him to do the same, and a small and private smile on her face. As he lifted it with a trembling hand, she gently touched the rim of her glass to his.

"To the journey, Vincent."

© Lydia Bower 2012


	2. Book Two: Halfway to the Stars

2. Halfway to the Stars

"_Dreams can be dreamt again. Sandcastles can be rebuilt."_

After thirty minutes or so of dividing her time between studying the map Mouse had drawn for her and blundering into dead-end passages or taking this left turn instead of that one, Diana was ready to give up and start banging on the nearest pipe for rescue. Damned stupid of her to even think she knew enough of these twisty-turny tunnels to make it from the Hub to the work site where Vincent was without a guide - which had been offered her and refused. That stubborn Irish pride was going to get her into real trouble one of these days. That is, if she ever managed to find her way out of there.

She wondered for a second if Mouse was taking revenge on her for something and had drawn a map to nowhere. After all, she regularly made a fool of herself in front of Vincent and his family without realizing it until later - did or said something to convince them she was just the dumb topsider most of them probably thought she was. But then Diana reconsidered: Mouse wouldn't do that to her. It wasn't his style, for one thing. For another, he wouldn't take the chance of Vincent finding out and then having to explain himself to that quiet, massive presence that could be so forgiving - except when he wasn't.

Diana stopped to get her bearings and at the same time rein in her emotions. She was already working on a killer headache from shoving down the worry that'd sent her in search of Vincent, absolutely not wanting him to pick up on it. She didn't need to add panic at getting lost into the mix. She'd forfeit an entire day to a migraine trying to do that. And somehow she knew she wouldn't have the time to spare.

Then she heard a racket up ahead and down a passageway that veered off to the right: voices, two or three of them, masculine. Then somebody started banging on something heavy. She lifted her lantern a little higher and headed toward the sounds. Then sped up when she heard _that_ voice respond to something being said - couldn't ever mistake the soft and gravelly baritone as belonging to anybody else.

Diana crossed into the passageway and down, just about tripping over a large toolbox sitting near the right side of the wall. About twenty five feet ahead of her, almost lost in the intermittent shadows between them was Vincent, his back to her, standing in the middle of a rough-hewn and wide doorway, arms over his head and holding up a wooden beam that had to have weighed a young ton.

Cullen and Kanin were on either side of him, setting the two smaller vertical beams that would make up the rest of the frame and pounding them into place with heavy mallets. Cullen caught sight of her out of the corner of his eye and called out a greeting.

"Oh. Hey, Diana!"

She lifted an open hand to him and then did the same when owl-eyed Kanin glanced over at her. Of course Vincent didn't move. It wasn't like he could just drop what he was doing.

"Hi, guys," she said. "Don't stop on my account."

So back to the pounding they went as she stood watching them and trying to figure out what it was about Vincent that was different. It wasn't until the two men declared the framing solid and he lowered his arms and turned that she discovered it. His wild, copper-gold mane had been pulled back in a low and loose ponytail. Despite her worry, she couldn't help but grin at him as he approached her, tugging down the sleeves of the faded blue and oft-patched shirt he wore under one of his short fringed and knotted vests. His answering smile was as warm as hers felt when he came to a stop in front of her.

"Diana." He enclosed her upper arm in one huge, furred hand. "This is a surprise. I wasn't expecting you."

The gentle strength of his fingers around her, the nearness of him, was almost enough to make her forget why she'd come here in the first place. She wondered if she'd ever not be affected by his fundamentally strange yet beautiful face and those piercing, soulful eyes looking into hers.

"I had the rest of afternoon off. Figured I'd come down and see what kind of trouble you'd gotten yourself into." She unthinkingly tucked back a lock of mane that'd escaped its restraint. "You should pull your hair back like that more often. Show off those great cheekbones."

Vincent gave her a long, appraising look and murmured, "Perhaps a bargain could be struck. I'd be willing if you'd agree to wear yours unbound from time to time. Such beauty deserves to be celebrated in its fullest measure."

She felt her face go hot and ducked her head, thinking he wouldn't make her blush nearly as often as he did if he wasn't so damned talented at turning a phrase. Meanwhile the other two men were silently gathering a myriad of tools: saws and planes and what-not, trying to be as inconspicuous as possible. Vincent seemed to notice this at the same time she did and led them back the way she'd come in, around the jog and into the main tunnel.

"Bet there'll be some tongues wagging in the Commons tonight," she joked as they came to a stop.

"Don't concern yourself, Diana. Discretion is something highly valued in the community. You needn't worry."

"Who says I'm worried?"

The fingers still around her arm slid down and enclosed her hand, gently squeezing.

"Now, tell me. What's happened that's taken you away from your work and brought you down here in the middle of the day?" Off the guarded look she threw him, he continued, "Surely you didn't think you could be so close and I wouldn't sense your turmoil."

Just then Kanin and Cullen rounded the corner, toting the toolbox with its rope handles between them. Kanin said as they passed by, "We're calling it a day here, Vincent. We still have to get more timbers cut for the far doorway and we won't have those ready until tomorrow."

Diana didn't think she'd ever heard the man string so many words together at once. Vincent had told her Kanin had always been a quiet man, but his eighteen month stint in prison had made him even more reticent. Time behind bars would do that to you.

"I'll meet you in the workshop tomorrow morning then," Vincent responded.

He turned back to her just as lanky Cullen threw over his shoulder with a wide grin, "You two kids behave yourselves. Don't do anything I wouldn't do."

"So what _wouldn't_ Cullen do?" she asked when the two men were out of sight. "Just for future reference."

"I hesitate to even consider it. Now, what were you going to tell me?"

Diana eased her hand out of his, putting a bit of needed space between them. No doubt Vincent noticed but he didn't react, other than an infinitesimal tilt of his head. Anybody else probably would've missed it. But Diana knew he was a man you had to watch closely to pick up even half of what was going on in that mind of his. And even then she always felt like she wasn't quite getting everything she should be. For that she had to rely on her less-than-perfect empathic senses – and his played hell with hers sometimes. Nothing like the full-out bond he'd shared with Catherine, but still plenty enough if they got a feedback loop going, pretty soon she couldn't tell Vincent's feelings from her own. It was a dangerous thing, but it could be heady and wonderful, too - as they were just beginning to discover.

Knowing there was no way to say it but just plain, she told him:

"A courier delivered a package to my loft this morning. It was a book, a notebook. I didn't know what the hell it was until I really started looking at it and some pieces clicked into place. I hadn't seen it before, just read about it in the files and from what Joe Maxwell's told me. And I wanted to talk to you before I got him involved."

She gave him a quick look. Vincent's face showed nothing in particular, but his eyes were curious. "The notebook – a ledger, really - belonged to a guy named Patrick Hanlon. That ring any bells?"

"No. Should it?"

Another piece clicked into place. Cathy hadn't told Vincent anything about the Hanlon case, likely because he was still recovering from his fugue after the business in the cave. No sense giving the man something else to worry about when half the time he couldn't even remember your name, right?

She twisted on her heel and took a couple more paces before turning back to him and looking him straight on. "Vincent, that notebook is the reason why Catherine was kidnapped. By Gabriel," she added and then could've smacked herself. Like he wouldn't know that, like she needed to remind him?

Vincent took a half step back and then shrugged himself straight again. Still so many raw places there, and sometimes no way to avoid rubbing against them.

"Tell me the rest," he said, almost too quietly to hear.

"As near as we could figure, Hanlon worked for Gabriel and wanted out. That ledger was his insurance. Hanlon gave it to Joe right before he got blown to kingdom come by a car bomb. The explosion almost killed Joe, too. He gave Cathy the ledger and she was working on it. But it's in some kind of code: random groups of letters and numbers mostly, and from what she told Joe, she couldn't make much sense of it.

"Anyway, the detectives working her kidnapping afterward turned her place upside down looking for it because Maxwell was convinced that's why she was taken - but they never did find it. They figured she must have had it with her when she was snatched. But I don't think so. Because Cathy was smarter than that. I figure she stayed stumped or started to work out the code – it could've gone either way."

Diana continued, not even aware she was moving now, pacing a short line in front of Vincent, who stood immobile, arms hanging slack at his sides. He'd completely withdrawn and she could tell he was trying to absorb this fresh pain and the reminder of all he'd lost.

"Cathy had to have given it to someone she absolutely trusted, either to help her out with it or squirrel it away somewhere safe. Now, I need to know: who would she have given that ledger to other than you, and why? And how come it was delivered to me more than a year later? It damn sure wasn't by mistake, not with that note. How did they know I could contact you, how did they know?"

"Note?" The single word was urgent.

That set off a twitch of recognition in her. Vincent had already considered who Catherine would've entrusted it to and was more interested in the note that came with it than the ledger itself. Almost like he'd been expecting it. Or already had a pretty good guess who'd sent it.

"Yeah," she confirmed, watching him closely, "it came with a note."

"Do you have it with you?"

Diana shrugged her tote off her shoulder and dug in, finding what she needed by feel. Her hand emerged with a small black leather spiral notebook, a piece of paper tucked inside and sticking an inch or two out from the top. She offered it to Vincent. He hesitated for a beat and then very carefully pulled the paper out of the ledger with claw tips, taking only that, and she knew he didn't want to touch what was essentially the very thing that'd led to Catherine's death. He'd avoid that pretty much like most people would a pissed-off rattlesnake.

She watched as he unfolded and read it. She'd memorized it the first time through with a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach that wasn't going away any time soon.

**Tell Vincent it's not over.**

**Someone will contact you.**

She studied him as his eyes moved over those two lines: once, twice, and again a third time. Then his head shot up and he looked aside, eyes wide with certainly.

Vincent declared, "I know this hand. Is it possible …?"

"You know who wrote that?"

"Yes, I recognize the handwriting."

She waited about five seconds and then prodded, "You gonna tell me or not?"

"Diana, this note … it's from Elliot Burch, I'm sure of it."

"Elliot Burch is dead, Vincent."

"I thought so, too. But this is his hand. I know it." He swallowed hard and trained a laser focused look at her. "His body was never recovered, isn't that so?"

She gave a vague wave of her hand. "Yeah, but … you really think he survived that explosion?"

"I did," Vincent retorted, as if that proved anything other than the fact he wasn't nearly as fragile as the five billion other people walking the earth. But Diana had no reason to doubt Vincent's certainty. If he believed Elliot Burch was alive, that was good enough for her.

"Okay, say it's true," she said. "How the hell did he make the connection between you and me? How did he know I could contact you?"

"Diana, you've told me yourself you spoke to Elliot on several occasions while you were investigating Catherine's murder. And surely some news of the raid on Gabriel's home and his death made the newspapers or television reports."

He looked at her for confirmation and she gave it with a terse nod. Yeah, her name splashed all over the place: exactly what she'd always gone out of her way to avoid. But when you gunned down a man like Gabriel Corbin, not even the police commissioner or the District Attorney of Manhattan could keep your name under wraps.

"Elliot was - _is_," Vincent quickly corrected, "an intelligent man. And knowing both of us and our common goal, he must have put the pieces together."

They shared a sharp, worried look. Neither of them said anything but Diana knew what they were both thinking: if Burch could connect her with Vincent then who else might? And why did she suddenly want to fling the notebook far into the bottomless depths of the Abyss? She settled for shoving it back into her tote just as Vincent refolded and stuck the note under the wide leather belt at his waist.

"With the proper resources and enough time, Elliot may have discovered the secrets of that notebook, Diana."

"What resources?' she snapped in anger. Not at Vincent, but at the facts and what they meant. It was making her skin crawl just thinking about all the hours they'd spent on her rooftop -and even in the goddam _daylight! - _thinking it was safe. And the countless times she'd called a quick, once-over-her-shoulder glance good enough and had entered the park threshold, or any of a dozen others she'd begun to use to move between her world and his. They hadn't been nearly careful enough, because now she was convinced someone had been watching them.

"The guy was practically in the poor house when the _Compass Rose_ blew," she reminded Vincent. "Not to mention facing murder charges for what happened at the carousel."

"Do you truly believe a man such as Elliot Burch didn't have plans set in place should he need to disappear himself," Vincent countered. "Or perhaps even take on a new identity?"

He had a point. While Burch may have been legally bankrupt, thanks to Gabriel, from what she knew of him he wouldn't have had a problem socking away a fortune in some highly illegal off-shore account just in case of emergency. Like Vincent had said: he was a smart man.

"So what do we do now?" she asked.

"We wait … until you're contacted again. What else is to be done?"

Diana made an indistinct growl of frustration deep in her throat. Sitting around waiting for the other shoe to drop wasn't an idea that appealed to her at all. A shiver of anger/fear moved through her and the next thing she knew she was wrapped in Vincent's firm embrace. Her arms came around his waist and she closed her eyes and laid her cheek against his shoulder. She could feel the strong, slow beat of his heart against hers even through the layers of clothing. After a long minute Diana felt a sense of calm washing over her, just because Vincent was finding a way to be that - for both of them.

_Yin and yang_, she thought. _We're never on the skinny edge at the same time. There's always one of us ready to pull the other one back to safety._

"It's not even the book, Vincent," she sighed against his neck. "It's the rest of it, the note. What's he mean: it's not over? Gabriel is dead. How can he still be a threat to us?"

"How can I know that? All we can do is wait, Diana. And trust that Elliot has good reason for contacting us."

"Yeah, well, that's the hard part."

"Yes. But whatever it is, we'll face it together. There is great strength in that."

She pushed away a bit so she could see him. "So I guess I won't be telling Maxwell about any of this."

"No," Vincent quickly agreed. "Not until we know more … perhaps not even then. And you must leave the notebook here, Diana."

"Why?"

He drew her back to him before answering. "Too many people have already died because they had it in their possession. I won't risk losing you, too."

They stood there for a long while, hanging on to each other. Diana was suddenly anxious to get moving and do something … anything. It was good her most recent case was wrapped up except for the paperwork she still needed to file, and most of that was finished. Her focus was shot all to hell and likely would be until she was contacted again and had more information to work with. So she'd have plenty of time now to do nothing but worry and pace that big, empty loft of hers.

Sensing the thoughts causing her agitation Vincent said, "It would be simpler for both of us, in the waiting, if you were to come Below. But then you would be out of Elliot's easy reach."

"That's a bad thing?"

He pulled away from their embrace but not completely from her: his hands stayed to bracket her arms. "Elliot could have betrayed our world any number of times. And he willingly chose to stand between me and a sniper's bullet, bearing that injury in my place. I regret my decision not to search for him after the explosion. But I was so gravely injured and wished only to be with Catherine when I passed from this life."

Diana watched as the memory of that night and what he'd suffered flashed anew in his eyes. He shook it off with effort and took the lantern from her, steering them back the way she'd come.

"But that was another time,' he added thoughtfully, "and it's best to leave the past where it belongs. Elliot is to be trusted, Diana. I'd stake my life on it – and have."

Vincent eventually caught up her hand in his as they walked the gentle upward slope of the tunnel and toward the Hub.

"Father should be told what's happened," he said after a few minutes.

"I'm real sorry I'm gonna miss that conversation," she replied as contritely as she could manage. He responded with a sidelong look that left no doubt he wasn't buying it.

"You'll come with me," he told her, tightening his grip on her hand - like she was going to try to run away or something. Not that she hadn't thought about it for half a second, but still.

"Why?" she asked.

He glanced at her again, and damned if she didn't see a glint of humor in his eyes.

"Because it wouldn't be polite to deprive Father of a few minutes of your company while you're here. Your visits have been infrequent of late and he asks about you."

"Yeah, I'll bet he does. Besides, I have the ledger. And you're not about to touch that, are you?"

Now it was Vincent's turn to be contrite. Except with him, it was genuine.

"Kind of like handing you a rattlesnake?" she asked, circling back to an earlier thought.

"Or a spider," he countered, visibly shuddering.

Diana shot him a surprised look. She never would have thought a big guy like him would be afraid of spiders. It was just another little piece in the endlessly fascinating puzzle that was Vincent. Sometimes she thought she'd never be done discovering everything there was to know about him. That could take years and years. When she thought about it that way, a short detour through Father's study didn't seem like too high a price to pay - not at all.

**...**

When Diana was contacted again, a week or so later, it came in a way she hadn't expected. She was minding her own business, arms laden with a bag of groceries and waiting for the light to change to cross Bleeker. She was suddenly shoved hard by some young turk as he came barreling up behind her and darting out into the sunny afternoon traffic.

"Hey!" she hollered as she lost her grip on the bag and it dropped to the dirty sidewalk. Peaches and apples went skittering away and perfectly beautiful baguette, baked just the right shade of golden brown, bent and folded in on itself.

"Goddam it!" Diana squatted and lunged for a split peach before it could roll off the curb, barely noticing when somebody joined her, snatching an apple and waiting patiently as she stuffed loose groceries back in the bag. Then the apple came into her field of vision and she took it, muttering, "Thanks. Stupid kids."

"My pleasure, Miss Bennett."

She looked sharply over at the face her name had come out of. Nobody she knew. Young guy, probably her age: late twenties. Close-cropped light brown hair and eyes she couldn't see behind dark sunglasses. He had an average face. Nothing special about the way he looked either, dressed in jeans and a suit coat over a white button down shirt and brown loafers on his feet.

She straightened from her squat and he followed a beat or two later, facing her with a friendly smile. Diana lifted her aviators and shoved them on top of her head.

"Do I know you?"

The smile stayed where it was and she was beginning to get seriously creeped out. She was ready to turn on her heel and walk away when Sunglasses Guy said, "Let's just say we have a mutual friend. I believe you received a package from him last week?"

"What's your name?" she demanded.

"My name isn't important, but you can call me Nick." He stuck out his hand. Diana looked at it and then back up at him. He withdrew it after a couple seconds and shoved it in his pocket.

"Okay, Nick, I'm listening."

"Our friend would like to meet with you later this evening, if that's convenient."

"And if it's not?" she challenged. Not that she had anything going on, but that was beside the point. Elliot Burch needed to know she wasn't one to blindly follow orders. It couldn't hurt to lay down some rules right off the bat. Vincent might trust him, but Burch hadn't done a damned thing to earn hers yet.

"Then something else can be arranged," Nick answered mildly. "But he wanted me to assure you he knows your time is valuable and he'd be grateful if you could make it."

"When and where?"

"Eleven o'clock. There's a pub not far from here, a few blocks north. The White Horse Inn. I think you're familiar with it."

That earned Nick another pointed look. Yep, she'd definitely been followed. Diana had been stopping in there for a beer a few times a month since she'd moved into her loft three years ago. It might be time to change her habits.

She thought it over for a minute and realized Burch was making it hard to refuse. He'd given her all the advantage: a meeting close to home and in a familiar place where at least the bartenders knew her, and a few of the patrons, too. He didn't have to do that. He could have set up something where she had to drive way the hell over to Brooklyn or someplace like that and be on unfamiliar ground.

"Okay, sure," she told Nick. "Tell him I'll be there."

He nodded his thanks and gave her that creepy smile again. As he turned to walk away, she called out to him.

"Hey! Next time ease up on the physical stuff. Don't have to knock me down to get my attention. Ruined some perfectly good fruit here."

Another glancing smile and Nick was gone, disappearing into the throng of people on the crowded city sidewalk. Diana retrieved the battered grocery bag and went back to waiting for the green light to cross.

**...**

She was intentionally late, walking through the door of the pub at a quarter after eleven. The place was hazy with cigarette smoke and dimly lit as always, sporting a half-empty weeknight crowd. Most of them were at the bar, with the rest scattered among the ten or so booths that lined the south and west walls in an L shape.

Sal, the evening bartender, a swarthy Italian whose girth was as expansive as his line of harmless bullshit, looked up from behind the bar he was polishing and waved a rag at her.

"Hi ya, Bennett. What can I getcha?"

Diana stepped to the bar, doing a quick scan of the patrons lined up at the solid mahogany slab. Some of them were studying their drinks; a couple more were making small talk; a few stared up at the TV perched on a high shelf in a corner at the end of the bar. Some chase scene was quietly unfolding on it, competing with an old-school blues tune coming out of the jukebox against the north wall, back by the restrooms. Diana recognized most of the faces as regulars. And the few that weren't didn't look anything like Elliot Burch.

She ordered a Guinness and, as Sal drew her beer from the tap, checked out the booths. They were separated by tall partitions and she had to push up on her toes to see over the tops of the ones on her left. Only one was occupied, at the far end, and it was by a bearded man wearing a baseball cap, head lowered and staring down at his mug. Two of other booths on the long side of the L held couples, both sets deep in conversation.

Diana slapped a five on the bar and slid it over to Sal as he set the mug down on a napkin. She waved away the change and grabbed the beer, taking a healthy swallow and then sucking in her upper lip to clean off the amber foam left there. The beer was cold and thick and tasted like home.

She pivoted and casually made her way down to the last booth on the left, absently aware of the weight of her pistol in its holster, tucked up against her side. She patted the left pocket of her trench coat and then slid in one fluid motion onto the hard wooden bench opposite the man.

He jerked at her sudden presence and looked up. He'd obviously been deep in thought and that surprised Diana. For some reason she figured he'd be paying more attention.

Yeah, it was Elliot all right. Minus about twenty pounds he couldn't afford, the weight loss evident in his face even with a heavy beard. His features were nearly gaunt and a thick, jagged scar, still pink with new, bisected his once-handsome face. It ran from the left side of his forehead through his eyebrow and across his nose, trailing off into his beard just below the right cheekbone. He was wearing a Yankees cap pulled down low over his long, dark hair and a plain black polo, collar turned up.

"Elliot Burch," Diana greeted him.

"Not anymore: he's dead," he responded with a quick, wry grin. "Haven't you heard?"

She answered him with a cool look and waited him out. The smile faded after a few seconds and he dropped his eyes back to the table separating them. When he lifted them to hers again, they were dull and sad: like eyes belonging in the face of a man twice his age.

"You can call me Stosh."

"Okay, Stosh. You wanted to see me, I'm here. So …"

"You got the package?"

"I did."

"And the message? Were you able to contact -"

She flipped up a hand to stop him.

"We don't need to say his name. We clear on that?"

"Fair enough. But will you answer a couple questions for me? Is Vin- is he okay?"

"I think you already know the answer to that. Otherwise why send the ledger to me in the first place. What else you wanna know?"

"The baby … Cathy's child -"

"Is healthy and happy and right where he should be: with his father."

Stosh let out a long breath. "Good. That's good to hear. A boy, huh? I don't suppose you'd tell me his name?"

"Suppose you tell me what the hell is going on first. I'm not much in the mood for idle chit-chat."

He looked back at her with a quiet and sudden intensity that caught her off-guard for the few seconds it took her to recover. But in that time she came to understand what it was about him that'd attracted Catherine Chandler. It wasn't just the good looks (still there if you could see past the scar), the mischievous blue eyes, or the innate charm she'd experienced first-hand in her few dealings with him. It was more than that. Whatever else the former Elliot Burch was, he had a steely conviction about him, and an extraordinary passion. Whatever this man decided he wanted and then set about pursuing, he'd go after it flat-out and with no hesitation. An awful lot like someone else she knew.

"Look, Diana," he said, "I know you got no reason to trust me. But _he_ did at one time, and I'm hoping there's still some of that trust left. Because, believe me, I wouldn't have contacted you if it wasn't important."

"I'm listening: go on." She slipped her hand into the left pocket of her coat and found the proper button on the miniature voice recorder by feel. It came on soundlessly and she carefully pulled it out and set it on the seat next to her as Stosh began to talk.

She walked out the bar alone a little over an hour later and stepped into the cab waiting for her at the curb. The five block walk home had become as inconceivable a task for her to complete as would be walking from one side of the country to the other in a day's time. No way could her legs carry her that far, and no way would she be caught out on the street alone tonight, not even armed.

Diana had left the booth only once, on the pretext of getting them both a refill and making a trip to the ladies room. After the door had swung closed behind her, Diana had retrieved the voice recorder from the pocket she'd slipped it back into and flipped the tape over. She'd splashed a handful of cold water on her face and spent a couple long minutes staring back at her reflection in the mirror over the grubby porcelain sink. Then she'd resolutely turned on her heel and rejoined Stosh Kazmarek with fresh beers in her hand and settled back into the booth to hear, and record, the rest of his story.

As she gave her address to the cabbie and slumped back against the seat, she replayed in her mind snippets of what she'd just heard, having to content herself with that until she could get back to the loft and listen to the tape. She shoved fisted hands between her knees and tried to quell the deep shudders coursing intermittently through her like rumbles of heavy thunder.

Diana Bennett had never been so scared in her life.

**...**

It made no difference she'd told Vincent, in the note she'd sent down after her encounter with Nick, that she'd come Below the next day to fill him in on the meeting with Burch: he was waiting for her in the loft when the elevator door slid open to admit her. It didn't really surprise her. Somehow she'd known he wouldn't be able to stay away, to wait until the following day to find out what'd happened.

Factor in the likelihood of him picking up on the enormity of her dread - even from so far a distance - and of course he'd be there. And right then she couldn't be anything but grateful. He was standing in front of the elevator to meet her and she practically collapsed against him once the accordion gate separating them was out of her way.

He said nothing, simply held her, one arm tight around her and a hand cupping the back of her head as she pressed her face into his neck. Diana's hands gripped his vest. All she could do was mumble, "Thank you, thank you for being here."

Vincent encouraged her softly, "Hush now. Breathe, just breathe."

Every breath pulled the scent of him into her frantic consciousness and hit her on some deep level: the candle-smoke that permeated his clothing and the top note aroma of the leather that comprised part of his patchwork cloak; the ancient, indescribable smell of rock and stone and earth. But mostly just the fragrance of him, close as she was to his bare skin, nose pressed against his neck: masculine and primal and so uniquely Vincent.

And there was also the gentle fierceness of his embrace and the warmth of him against her. Beneath that, beneath everything, the steady pulse of his strength he shared with her, always shared with her, a seemingly endless reservoir she was welcome to draw from whenever she had need of it.

After a long while she finally began to relax and Vincent's hold on her loosened in response. Diana nuzzled against his neck a final time, placed a kiss there and pulled away, shedding her coat and tossing it across the back of the armchair. Remembering, she retrieved the voice recorder from the pocket and set it gingerly on the small dining table as she went to pour a glass of water from the faucet.

"I got it all on tape," she told Vincent, turning to him. "I didn't want to take a chance on forgetting anything. And I figured you'd want to hear it straight from the horse's mouth." Vincent's eyes moved between her and the recorder. "Give me a minute here to clear my head and I'll grab the headphones and go through it, pick out the highlights for you." She bit off a syllable of bitter laughter. "Highlights … yeah." She glanced up to find Vincent looking aside. At what, she didn't know - maybe nothing at all.

He released a heavy, mostly silent sigh, looking back at her before asking, "Elliot … is he well?"

Diana shrugged in response. "He's a fighter, a survivor. But I guess you already knew that. And he's going by the name of Stosh Kazmarek now - or at least part of the time. Apparently that's only one of many names he's using these days. So you were right about that part, too."

"Stosh," Vincent told her, "is his childhood name. He was Stosh Kazmarek before he … became Elliot Burch."

"Yeah, well, it seems having more than one name is the norm these days. Sometimes I have enough trouble remembering the one I got, you know? Don't know why anybody would want more than one anyway. Can you imagine what a pain in the ass _that_ would be?"

She opened her mouth to say more and realized she was on the verge of babbling - just to have something to do other than what needed to be done. She made a quick slicing motion through the air to cut herself off.

"Diana."

Nobody but Vincent could pack so much meaning and so many questions into nothing more than a single word: her name. It was entreaty and embrace and acknowledgement of what he could feel in her and his desire to understand and share it with her.

She made herself move, pushing away from the kitchen island. She unbuckled and slipped off her shoulder holster as she went, laying it on her work desk before rooting through a drawer there, searching for the small headphones that'd come with the recorder. _Gotta love technology_, she thought absently, _mobile phones will be the size of our palms before we know it. _She found what she was looking for and pulled out one of the chairs at her tiny table, settling into it.

"You might as well make yourself comfortable," she warned Vincent. "I've got almost an hour to go through here."

He took the chair opposite her and sat quietly as she plugged in the headphones and stuck them on. She'd already rewound the tape on the cab ride home. Diana grabbed a scrap piece of paper from a messy pile littering the table, along with a pen so she could jot down approximate times to later correspond with the numbers on the small counter of the recorder. Then she hit the play button and shut her eyes.

They didn't open again until she smelled coffee under her nose and found Vincent sitting back down at the table, a mug of tea in his hand. She grabbed for the mug he'd set in front of her and took a big swallow without thinking about how hot it might be. But Vincent had been ahead of her: she could see just the smallest sliver remaining of the ice cube he'd dropped into it before bringing it to her. He drank his tea and gazed out the window to his left, taking in the city's nighttime skyscape, behaving for all the world like he was just enjoying a relaxed evening at home with her.

She was suddenly overcome by an immense wave of love for him and had to shut off the recorder so she could let it pass over and through her without distraction. Diana snatched Vincent's hand where it lay flat on the table, needing him to feel it and know it with her. His hand twisted under hers and held as his eyes slipped shut. When he opened them a few seconds later, they were brimming with something indescribable and focused directly at her. There were no words invented that could even begin to convey what she saw there in his eyes. All she knew was it humbled her down to her very bones and made her realize all over again how lucky she was to have him in her life.

And then the moment passed and she returned to the recording and Vincent to his introspective stillness. She reached the end of the tape some fifteen minutes later and rewound it, pulling off the headphones. Vincent slowly turned from the window and gave her his attention.

"Okay," she announced, puffing out a deep breath. "I want you to hear a few specific things first and then you can go back and listen to the whole thing, if you want. And then I want you to take it down to Father and play it for him. There're things he needs to know. You keep it down there for the time being. I'll give you some extra batteries to take with you."

"All right."

She could see Vincent already bracing for what was to come, knowing it was bad just from what he sensed from her. She glanced at her blindly scribbled notes and fast-forwarded to just before the twelve minute mark.

Diana held up the headphones asking, 'You want– No," and unplugged them from the recorder at the tiny shake of his head.

Vincent didn't need the amplification. What would come from the built-in speaker would be more than enough for his enhanced hearing to pick up. And maybe he didn't want to be that close to what he was about to hear. Maybe it would be like slapping spiders to his ears.

Before Diana hit the play button she reached out and took his hand in hers again, looking him straight in the eye.

"We'll figure out a way to get free of this, babe, I promise."

She let go of his hand, thumbed the volume up on the recorder, and hit play. Stosh's voice, tinny and disconnected, filled only a small part of the empty silence of her loft.

"_- based in Italy, but it's a world-wide conglomeration of holding companies, banks, arms manufacturers, pharmaceutical companies, law firms, real estate, technology – the list goes on and on. It's huge, Diana, bigger than anything I could've imagined. And all of it leading back to this one family. I swear if we dug deep enough we'd find out they own fucking nations."_

"_Tell me about the family."_ Diana's recorded voice sounded strange to her, like someone trying to imitate her and doing a lousy job.

"_The business, all the wealth, has been passed down from generation to generation, as far back as the fourteenth century – the lineage is incredibly old. We already know about Gabriel Corbin, right? That may not have been his true name, but we haven't been able to establish that with any certainty. _

"_There's a brother, an older brother, whose name is Michael. Both of them were born in Italy but were raised and educated in the states. Both have dual citizenship, and they'd move back and forth all the time. Apparently Michael was never part of the day-to-day business side of things - that was Gabriel's territory. It seems Michael was better suited for the dirty work, the wet work. From what we've been able to figure out, this guy, Michael, was your basic assassin for hire until he retired about eight years ago. He hasn't been seen since. Creepy looking guy, from what I've been told: small, wiry, really gaunt looking features like Gabriel, white-blonde hair. Goes by the name Snow."_

Vincent jerked in his chair like somebody had goosed him. His eyes were haunted when they lifted to meet hers. She stopped the recording.

"What?"

"The hunter: the one Gabriel sent Below to kill me. The one who took the lives of Stephen and Old Sam, and very nearly Brooke. It was this man, Diana."

"It was Snow?" she asked incredulously.

Vincent answered her with a slow, wary nod.

She wiped a shaky hand across her forehead. "Well, that's another piece of the puzzle. Explains why they had identical rings: they were brothers. You ready? I wanna get this over with." She hit the play button.

"_Gabriel and Michael had a falling out about ten years ago, over the family business," _Stosh was saying._ "Gabriel wanted to keep things the way they'd always been: passed from generation to generation and only to those who were pure blood kin. Michael was pushing to expand the definition of family and eventually pass over the reigns to someone within the business who could be trusted."_

"_Why?"_ Diana heard herself ask.

"_It's pretty simple, actually. Gabriel never married or had any children. But Michael did. And the Corbin bloodline ends with Michael's only child: a daughter named Celina. Gabriel wanted to bring her into the business as his successor and Michael was dead-set against it. Wanted to keep her as far away from it as possible. Kind of funny that a man who basically kills people for pleasure – because, let's get serious, he didn't need the money - has a problem with his kid taking over the multi-billon dollar family business, corrupt as it may be."_

"_Not so funny, Stosh. Raising a child changes the way you look at everything. Trust me on this."_

"_Yeah, maybe. Anyway, long story short: Gabriel got his way and Celina eventually cut all ties with her father. I don't know if that was a result of Gabriel's influence, or what. But now that he's dead and Michael is nowhere to be found, Celina is queen of her own world-wide empire. And apparently very, very good at what she does. Maybe even better than dear old Uncle Gabriel." _

Diana shut off the tape and pushed up from the table, mug in hand. "You want some more tea?"

Vincent pulled his attention from the tape recorder and focused on her – sort of. His eyes were distant, spacey. "No, thank you."

He was very quiet and very, very still. It made her edgy when Vincent got like that, because it usually meant his mind was going a million miles an hour and taking the same kind of illogical leaps she often did. And that wouldn't be such a bad thing if it wasn't for them both being so damned good at it, and so nearly always accurate – illogical or not. She remembered something she'd said to him right there in her loft, when he was recovering from the explosion of the _Compass Rose_, about how she hunted the people she did – and how she'd hunted and found him.

"_I try to live inside of other people. I surround myself with them, I penetrate their minds. And sometimes – most of the time – what I see, it frightens me." _

As Diana poured out another cup of coffee, she wondered how close Vincent was to coming to the truth of what was happening. She told him, "Stosh goes on for a while about some of Celina's less than legal, ethical, and moral business dealings. Apparently she learned a lot at both her father's and her uncle's knee. But all that was just prelude to what he really wanted us to know."

She sat back down and glanced at her notes again. She flipped the tape over and rewound, then thumbed the fast forward button and stopped it, setting the recorder down on the table between them before she hit play and brought Stosh back into the room.

" – _where it gets really weird. I don't know how much you know about European aristocracy, but some of these families are fucking nuts. Eccentric doesn't begin to describe it. It's like it's in their blood or something and passed down from parent to child. And some of the things they do to each other … Trading off kids between families as a way of assuring alliances, business or otherwise; arranged marriages; incest being practiced as the norm … just some unbelievable things going on. Anyway, the Corbins are sometimes referred to by another name within this circle of … acquaintances they have. They're known as The Collectors." _

"_Explain that to me."_

"_They collect things: rare things, priceless things, things that are one-of-a-kind. Art, music, books, antiquities, jewels, you name it. Whatever they can get their hands on that no one else has. And they're not real particular about how they acquire these things. Blood or money: if they want it badly enough, they'll find a way to have it."_

There was a long pause on the tape then, the only sounds the faint whispers of conversations going on in the bar, and the sharp clink of a glass knocking against something.

"_It doesn't stop at material goods,"_ Stosh continued, his voice grown even more somber and intense than before. _"They've also been known to acquire people, Diana. And Celina knows about him. She wants him for her … collection."_

Diana couldn't bring herself to look at Vincent. She didn't want to see what was in his eyes. She would rather have gone blind than that. Besides, she knew there was even worse to come.

"_Not gonna happen,"_ she heard herself retort. _"No way in hell. He'll die first, and take as many of them with him as he can. She has no idea what she's dealing with here, no idea, none. And how the hell do you know all this anyway? Yeah, you may have been able to break the code in that ledger, but you can't tell me all this information you're giving me came out of that. How could know all this unless … Sonofabitch, you've got somebody on the inside, don't you?"_

"_Yeah, deep inside," _Stosh confirmed_. "I've still got a few tricks up my sleeve. But here's the thing, Diana, this is what you and him need to know. Celina has video tapes that were taken out of Gabriel's place before the cops raided it: hours and hours of our friend. I know she's gotten a lot of what she knows from those. From watching them and from the conversations he and Gabriel had when he was locked up there. But there are other things she knows, too. Things that lead me to believe … Diana, I think she may have someone on the inside, too."_

Diana's heart slammed in her chest as Vincent shot to his feet, knocking over his chair and spilling the contents of their mugs as his knees caught the edge of the table coming up and his end of it went airborne before crashing back down. He took three abrupt and staggered steps back from the table, staring in horror at the recorder. She grabbed at it to shut it off and looked back up at him.

He was panting: harsh, ragged gasps; clawed hands clenched into tight fists and upper fangs showing as his cleft lip curled in a silent snarl. His eyes had gone black as night and Diana felt the briefest moment of fear before he spun and took off running for the stairs that led to the roof.

"Vincent! Vincent, wait!"

She heard him flying up the steps, taking them in leaps of three or four at a time, and then the sound of metal bending and the roof door slamming into the inside wall as he yanked it open and shoved it out of his way. She knew she wouldn't be able to catch up to him. He was too damned fast. And running now to beat hell. Running for the only home he'd ever known – and ever could know. The one place that had always been his safe place. But that now maybe held the greatest danger of all.

Diana grabbed her trench coat, froze for a second, then snatched her gun from the holster and set off after him, the voice recorder still in her hand.

**...**

Once Below, Diana took the quickest route she knew toward the Hub, half running and half walking, making her way steadily downward in surroundings almost completely void of light and trying to do it without running into something or tripping over the raised lip of a tunnel junction and falling flat on her face. She hadn't even thought to grab a flashlight – she hadn't needed one before. Vincent had always been with her to guide her, lantern in hand - and that was more for her benefit than his. He could see perfectly well in what most people would consider total darkness.

Diana was out of breath and shaky with worry. Not for herself, though. Ever since she'd left her loft she'd had her huncher wide open, trying to pick up something, anything, from Vincent. But he was shut down tight. She could find nothing other than an emptiness inside of her where her sense of him usually lived. And that left her feeling strangely hollow.

She'd been jogging long enough she figured she should be getting close to some passageway lit by candles, marking the beginnings of the outermost areas of the Hub, but there was nothing yet. She kept moving with the barely considered notion that the longer it took her to reach Vincent, the worse things were going to get.

Too many thoughts were bouncing around in her head like silver orbs in a pinball machine, and it was a few more minutes before she was able to filter most of them out and leave a big enough space up there to consider other things. Like the fact that the pipes running the length of the passageway, never completely silent even in the dead of night, were clattering and banging in a way she'd never heard before. There was almost no break between the messages being frantically sent through them. No time to even try to understand them, with her limited knowledge of pipe code.

Diana considered, and quickly dismissed, the idea of doing a little banging of her own. From the sounds of the pipes, the last thing anyone needed Below was some dumb topsider sending an SOS when the center was almost certainly collapsing. She'd find her own way there, or not at all.

She muttered a few colorful words and then glanced up from where she'd been trying to watch her feet and saw the illumination of a moving light creeping toward her from around a bend, flowing over the rough stone walls like the inexorable push of the tide against a shore.

"Oh, hey! Hey, it's me, it's Diana! Is somebody there?"

"Diana?" Just then Jamie came around the curve and strode right up to her. The girl's face was slick with sweat and her bangs, in need of a good trimming, were plastered to her forehead. Diana took note of the crossbow slung over her shoulder.

"What are you doing here?" Jamie asked. Her tone was verging on wariness.

"Man, I sure am glad to see you." Diana grabbed her arm. "Listen, I gotta find Vincent. It's real important, Jamie. Can you point me to the Hub? I can get there on my own; I just need to know if I'm going in the right direction, okay? I think I got myself all turned around here."

Jamie was shaking her head before Diana even got all the words out.

"I'm sorry, but I can't. Vincent has the Hub on lockdown. No one goes in or out but him and the sentries."

"Jamie, you gotta get me there. Please!" The girl studied her for a long minute and the resolve in her features began to fade.

"Please," Diana implored a second time.

Jamie set her mouth tight and said, "Let me see if I can get a message through to him. If he responds and it's okay, I'll take you myself."

Diana stood lightly banging a fist against the stone passageway as Jamie did a quick check of the pipes and chose one of the smaller ones in a bundle set waist-high and strapped to the tunnel with wide metal brackets. She pulled a small section of pipe from her jacket and tapped out a hurried series of longs and shorts. Even to Diana's uneducated ear, the message sounded terse. Jamie turned back to her after she'd repeated it a couple times.

"It may take him awhile to get it," Jamie said with an apologetic shrug. "All hell is breaking loose right now with everybody trying to get things locked down and signal locations at the same time. Bet Pascal and Zach are going nuts trying to keep up sorting them all out."

"What happened?" Diana knew the circumstances on her end of things but she wanted to know what she'd be dealing with if and when she got to Vincent.

"I'm not sure," Jamie admitted. "Vincent usually signals when he's reached the outer perimeter and is coming home. He did that, but then he sent out an emergency message right after. Said we were going on lockdown and all the auxiliary passageways leading toward the Hub had to be shut down within the hour."

"Can you do that?"

"Well, there's a hell of a lot of tunnels surrounding the Hub, but only three lead directly there. Some of the lesser-used routes have barriers we can throw up real quick, stuff we've built or installed over the years; and he has some kind of alarm system set up, too: Mouse does. There are enough sentries we can block access of the passageways that don't have doors or bars already in place."

Diana felt the weight of her weapon in her coat pocket and glanced again at Jamie's crossbow, thinking they were probably the best armed of anyone down there. And then she thought about how useless the other sentries' weapons of heavy wooden staffs and small sections of pipe were, when it came right down to it. They were so vulnerable to attack, with only one recourse if things got really bad.

They had Vincent, who was way too good at his own unique style of wet work. That was something Diana absolutely never wanted to have happen, not as long as she was around and could think of a way to prevent it. Vincent already had enough ghosts to deal with - he didn't need any more.

"Jamie, have you seen him?"

"Who, Vincent? No. Last I heard he was headed for Father's study. Diana, do you know what's going on, what's happened?"

She was deciding just how much she should say when the girl lifted a hand and bent to put her ear to the pipes. She stood folded like that for a minute and then straightened up.

"Okay, let's go," she told Diana. "That was Father, not Vincent, but he said to let you through. Do you mind if we run? I really need to get back here before Vincent figures out I left my post and comes looking for me to find out why."

"Understood. C'mon," Diana said, pressing the edge of her fist into Jamie's arm, "I'll race you."

She arrived in the Long Hall some five minutes later, dismissing Jamie with a quick hug of thanks, and headed for the study. She hurried past the long, narrow entryway into Vincent's chamber and then stopped and backed up. Ducking her head inside, she found it empty and kept going, breaking into a run when the sound of Father's raised voice reached her ears.

"It is completely out of the question! I won't allow it! Now, Vincent, please, can we sit down and discuss this rationally? Please!"

She skidded around the corner into the study just in time to see Vincent slapping his open hand down on the big table, shouting, "No!" the single word erupting from him in a harsh growl. A thick candle sitting there wobbled on its base and very nearly tipped over.

"There is nothing to discuss, Father! I am responsible for the safety and security of these tunnels and I will implement whatever means I deem necessary in order to protect them!"

Father rounded the table and stood toe to toe with him, glaring up at his son with fearless indignity, dressed in nothing more than a robe over a long nightshirt that ended just above his skinny ankles, leaving them exposed to the chill tunnel air. His feet were stuffed into thick slippers.

"It is insanity, Vincent! Surely you can't be suggesting we cut off -" He picked that moment to glance up at the landing where she stood. "Oh, Diana, thank God!"

Two heads swiveled around to face her, and two sets of eyes. She wasn't sure who she should be looking at first and decided to give each of them a quick glance, starting with Vincent. Then found she couldn't look away when she met his feral gaze. Vincent was as angry as she'd ever seen him. His normally placid blue eyes had gone steely gray and were practically throwing off sparks.

Father started up again. "Perhaps _you_ can talk some sense into my son. Who has, for some reason yet to be determined, decided – unilaterally, I might add - that this community must now do without the generosity of our helpers Above and has ordered an indefinite lockdown! How he proposes we meet the needs of close to two hundred souls, needs as basic as _food_ and _medical supplies _- not to mention a multitude smaller but just as vital - without their help, is an answer he doesn't seem willing to provide!"

It was obvious from his rant that Father was just as angry as Vincent. The subject of his tirade, meanwhile, had begun pacing the small space between the table and Father's desk, fists clenched and head down. The hem of his cloak lifted and swirled around him with each turn, like the swooping of a blackbird's wings.

Vincent stopped short and gave Father the same hot glare he'd given her before turning it back in her direction. Then he raised his eyebrows at her – quite an impressive display, considering – and lifted an arm in invitation.

"Go on," he ordered Diana in that same raspy growl. "Tell him!"

"Yes, please," Father piped up. "Will someone in this chamber be as kind as to tell me what the bloody hell is going on?"

If Diana'd had a fire hose handy, she would've turned it on both of them.

Instead she moved down the steps, eased between them, and went to the sideboard tucked beneath the wood and wrought iron balcony that ran half the length of the diameter of the study. Father and son had gone quiet and she could feel them watching her as she poured a glass of water from the pitcher there and drank it down in four long swallows. Diana didn't know if they were catching their breath for round two or if she'd startled them into silence by refusing to be pulled into their argument. Didn't really matter to her which it was, so long as the yelling stopped. She scrubbed a wrist across her mouth and turned to them.

"You," she pointed at Father. "Go sit down somewhere before you have a heart attack."

The look she got in return was one of incredulity. Diana figured not many people risked talking to Father that way. But she'd never been very good at tiptoeing around anyone. And, what do you know, after he remembered to shut his jaw, he turned and headed for his desk.

"And you," she went on, pinning Vincent with a look that challenged any argument. "Don't you have anything you should be doing? Someplace you should be?"

They may not have been related by blood, but that didn't mean the two men didn't share the same mannerisms and expressions. Vincent's mouth also dropped open in response to her words, if not her matter-of-fact tone – maybe both. He set his hands on his hips, shooting her a deeply offended look.

"Someplace other than here, Vincent," she clarified, not bothered at all by his reaction. Then she played her ace in the hole. Reaching into her coat pocket, she pulled out the voice recorder and held it up where he could see it. "Unless once wasn't enough and you wanna hear this again."

That decided him. He spun and stormed up the stairs, pausing halfway up to throw a look she couldn't see toward Father before he stomped his way out of the study, each impact of his size 15 boots raising billows of dust as he went.

"I bet he was a real treat when he was a teenager," Diana casually observed a few seconds later. Father gave her a sharp look that almost immediately softened into a smile.

"You haven't the least idea, Diana. Although I am quite familiar with the perils of adolescence, having had a hand in raising several of our children over the years, none could compare to Vincent. There were, of course, the usual bouts of angst and uncertainly and the many stumblings on the path to independence; the hormonally charged variances of mood so common amongst children that age. But one always had to tread very lightly with Vincent. One could never afford to forget he was not like the other children, in very fundamental ways.

"He avoided confrontation at all costs. I would assume because of the emotions involved: both his own and what he had no choice but to feel in others, before he learned to block them in a somewhat successful manner. When confrontation couldn't be avoided, he would likely as not accept a lecture and any further punishment, if there was one, in silence. And then invariably go off and do what he wanted to do anyway. I don't know if you've noticed or not, Diana, but Vincent can be fiercely stubborn."

She gave Father an impudently slanted look as she carried the mug of tea she'd poured for him over to his desk and set it within his reach. Glancing behind her, she pulled out a chair next to the desk and slumped into it.

Father picked up his reading glasses from the blotter and fiddled with them. "A rhetorical question, of course. I'm sure you know exactly what I mean. But you mustn't think he was ever ill-behaved or that his actions put anyone in danger – other than himself. It is simply part of his character, I think, that he must always test his boundaries."

Father had a far-off look on his face as he gazed at something only he could see: maybe a younger, more innocent Vincent. But then he pulled himself back to the present and steered his thoughts in a different direction, speaking them aloud: "I've noticed, since Catherine's death, he is far more likely to engage in, and sometimes even provoke, an argument than he ever was before. Perhaps he can no longer bear to deny his own feelings of anger. And that is only one of many things that've changed since …"

Trailing off and unfolding the ear pieces of the glasses, he slipped them on and peered at her over the tops. "Now, will you please tell me what's happened, what's put him in such a state?"

Diana reached in her pocket and leaned up far enough to set the voice recorder next to the mug. Then she sat back and told him, starting with the package that'd been delivered to her loft. She showed Father how to operate the recorder then, and left him alone to listen to the tape, heading back out to the Long Hall in search of Vincent.

**...**

She found him in the Whispering Gallery, standing in the middle of one of those rickety wooden bridges she always hesitated to cross. He was facing out into the vast distance before him: a space larger than Diana would've thought possible without causing half of Manhattan to collapse in on itself. And yet both worlds stood solid. She'd found herself wondering from time to time if the world Below was kept in place by the one Above, or if it was the other way around. Somehow she didn't think one could exist without the other.

Vincent cocked his head just the slightest in her direction as Diana moved onto the bridge, telling herself not to look down - which she promptly did anyway. The inky blackness of the Abyss looked back at her with ancient disregard. She stepped slowly toward Vincent, hoping none of the spooky voices that came out of nowhere would start up while she was there. Damned near made you jump out of your skin if you weren't expecting it.

She stopped about three feet short of him, wanting to give him plenty of room to maneuver if he all of a sudden decided he needed to be somewhere else. She studied him and he studied the large nothingness before him. Diana was deciding what to say just as Vincent broke the silence.

"I'm not angry. With you."

He still hadn't looked at her.

"I know."

"Yes … of course," he replied after a few beats. "Sometimes I forget. That you know, as I do, the feelings of others."

She shrugged and folded her arms. "I'm not as good as you, but I can pick up enough. You're tougher than most, though. And pretty good at clamping down on the big stuff, shoving it way down deep."

"Yes. I am … well-practiced at that; though not as disciplined as I once was. I have learned, since Catherine's death. The willful ignorance of that which is Other within me is something … I can no longer abide. One cannot be at war with one's self and long survive. And I _have _survived."

Diana wasn't sure if he trying to convince her of that, or himself.

"I thought you should know," she said after a minute. "Father is listening to the tape. I imagine he's gonna have some questions for both of us."

Vincent heaved a sigh. And then, so quietly she had to step closer to hear:

"'This is the creature there has never been.'"

"What's that?" she asked, recognizing it as a quote just from the reverent way he spoke the words.

"A line. From a poem. The second of the _Sonnets to Orpheus_. Rilke." His open hand lifted and fell. "I have often wondered. If perhaps I was imagined into being. By someone."

Diana didn't try to come up with a response. She knew he wasn't necessarily looking for a conversation. He just needed someone to witness his words. She could do that for him. And though she couldn't sense much from him at the moment, she could tell by the short sentences, the fragments of thoughts, Vincent was struggling to make sense of things.

"It is … an odd feeling," he went on. "To be considered less than human. Rather, a possession to be acquired. Nothing more than an object to be added to a collection. I have always known. That I was different. How could I not? But I have tried, Diana. I have tried to be the man I should be. That Catherine would want me to be. To have my life, now, honor her memory. To give her, in death, what I could not while she lived."

She watched as a tear coursed its way down his cheek and disappeared into the soft fur of his muzzle.

"I came here. To this very place. After I brought Catherine home … for the last time. And I considered the endless depths of the Abyss. It would've been no more than a single step. But I couldn't take it. Not even in the enormity of my grief. I cried out then. Knowing I was doomed to live. My choice to continue on without her was as terrible a thing to me as her death. And as inevitable."

Diana reached out and laid her hand on the sleeve of his cloak. She gave him her patient stillness and her love, as best she could, with that slight contact.

"I consider the Abyss … still. If I were gone, my very existence would no longer be a threat to those I love." Vincent finally turned to look at her, the burden of his sadness unmistakable in his eyes. "But, again, I cannot find the strength."

"The strength is in _not_ taking that single step," she assured him with conviction. "We'll get through this, Vincent."

He looked away again, out into the darkness. "Are you aware, Diana, of the origins of the name Celina?"

Effortlessly switching gears with him, she slid her hand down his arm and curled her fingers around his, glad when he caught them up and held on.

"No, can't say I am," she admitted.

"It's Latin. Celina is the moon."

Diana shook her head. "You lost me."

"It's nothing. A fragment of a dream. Or a vision. It's nothing." Vincent let go of her hand and lifted his arm to encircle her waist, drawing her close. She leaned into him and rested her head on his shoulder.

"Twice, Fate has seen fit to bless me with the love of a woman," he said. "And twice I have endangered their lives merely by the fact of my being. I fear it is no longer safe for you Above, Diana. And neither is it safe Below - for you or anyone else. I don't know what I am to do now. But I know if you were free of me, it would be better for you."

"Says who?" she demanded, wrapping her arms around his waist. "I decide what's best for me - nobody else, not even you. Maybe especially not you. You're way too good at giving up your dreams for somebody else's. I don't want you to ever have to do that again. Not with me."

He dropped his head and rested it against hers. "You should leave me, Diana," he murmured against her hair. "Leave me … while I can still let you go."

She lifted her head and turned in his arms enough to look him in the eye.

"Can you?"

Vincent steadily met her gaze and then closed his eyes in a slow blink.

"No," he breathed.

"Then forget about it. You're stuck with me, babe."

When he trained them on her again, his eyes were shockingly blue and shiny with fresh tears. They were warm and vulnerable and so filled with love that it made her heart wrench in her chest. Vincent cupped her cheek in his hand and dipped his head to bring his strange mouth carefully to hers. He ended the kiss after a long moment and gathered her tighter.

"You do me such honor, Diana, by loving me. I will not surrender this dream – I cannot. Nor will I allow it to be taken from me. We will do what we must to eliminate the threat that stands before us."

He loosed his hold on her and offered her his hand. "Come," he told her. "Father is waiting. And there are plans to be made."

Vincent led them off the bridge, away from the dark and empty space of the Abyss, and back into the candle-lit and close embrace of the tunnels.

**...**

They walked back to the study and found themselves in the middle of an unscheduled council meeting, short of Mary, who was occupied with three flu-stricken children in the dormitory and Pascal, who was still in the Pipe Chamber trying to sort out the important messages and shut down everything else.

Though the pipes weren't quite as busy as they had been when she'd first come Below, Diana suspected a lot of what was being sent now was pretty much the tunnel community's equivalent of gossip. She'd learned enough about Pascal over the months to know he wouldn't tolerate that for long.

Gathered at the large table was Mouse, sandy-blonde hair sticking out every which way and nervously fingering one of his gizmos; William, rotund and very obviously unhappy, judging by the scowl on his face; and Cullen, slouched low in his chair and absently scratching and stretching away the last of the sleep he'd been pulled from by Vincent's lockdown order and the ensuing organized chaos. Father was, of course, at his desk. Diana noted the recorder was sitting on the blotter in front of him.

"While I cannot verify that we may, indeed, have a … spy amongst our Helpers," Father was saying, "I find no reason not to take both Vincent and Diana's concerns to heart and consider this a very real threat to us." Father paused, following the eyes of those at the table, all of which had turned in her and Vincent's direction.

"Ah, Vincent … Diana. Please, join us. I was just telling the others about your meeting with Elliot Burch, Diana, and the information he gave you."

She followed Vincent down the stairs and stepped to the left as he went to the right.

"What I want to know," William demanded, "is why we should take the word of this topsider, this Elliot Burch, as gospel. We don't know this man. How do we know he's not lying to us?"

"I know him," Vincent retorted, stopping as he reached the place where Father sat. "And I trust him, William. Elliot has no reason to lie to Diana. He's risked his life by reaching out to her. In doing so, he has risked his life for all of us, as well."

Vincent laid his hand on Father's shoulder. Father glanced back at him and then covered his son's hand with his own for a brief moment. It was apology and acceptance in one simple, unspoken gesture. Vincent leaned back against the credenza behind the desk and folded his arms across his chest.

"But how do we know what's he's saying is the truth?" William argued. "From what Father's told us, even Burch admitted he didn't know anything for certain. All he has is his suspicions. Far as I'm concerned, that's not a good enough reason to put us on lockdown and me scrambling to figure out how the hell I'm supposed to feed us."

"It's not like the storerooms aren't stuffed to the rafters," Cullen pointed out. "We can make it on what we have for awhile."

"Fine, you can hop up on a table in the Commons come morning and explain to everyone why they'll be eating nothing but macaroni and canned peas for the foreseeable future."

William and Cullen glared at each other across the table.

"This is bad," Mouse said quietly. "Worse than bad." He looked over at Vincent with confusion evident in his elastic features. "Mouse knows the Helpers, Vincent. All good. Or Mouse thought. Why do this thing?"

"Even good people can be led astray, Mouse," Vincent responded gently. "All of us are vulnerable to our own demons. They can make us behave in ways we never thought ourselves capable of."

Though no one else seemed to notice, Diana caught the flick of Cullen's eyes toward Vincent and then Mouse before he dropped his gaze and studied his lap. There was something in Vincent's words that'd struck a little too close for the carpenter's comfort. She would have to ask Vincent about it some time.

She covered an abrupt yawn behind her hand and snuck a quick peek at her watch. It was nearly three o'clock in the morning and she was wiped out. She hadn't been sleeping worth a damn since the delivery of the ledger a week ago anyway, and had already been up going on twenty four hours. The street corner encounter with Nick seemed like it had happened a month ago, instead of just that afternoon.

Diana caught Vincent's look of concern from the corner of her eye as she left her spot at the stair railing and collapsed into the large chair a few steps away. It was almost too much of an effort to meet his gaze and give him a vague smile, assuring him she was okay.

Father was saying, "None of us want to believe this is true, but we cannot simply bury our heads in the sand because the idea of it is repugnant to us. Though, in theory, I agree with Vincent's decision to lock down the Home Chambers for now and restrict the Helpers' access to us, I also realize it's not a long-term solution and we must try to come to some sort of consensus about where we should go from here."

Before she even knew she was going to do it, Diana raised her hand, feeling like she was back at St. Malachy's and asking Sister for permission to speak.

"Can I say something?"

Everyone turned to look at her and she automatically came out of her slump and sat up straighter.

"Of course, Diana," Father responded. "Please. You have the floor."

"Okay," she started slowly, gathering her thoughts. Which now was pretty much like grabbing at smoke and expecting it to be solid. But she had to try anyway. "Granted, I'm just a topsider and not a part of this community, but I think it gives me a different perspective here, maybe the rest of you can't see because you're too close to it. Forgive me for being blunt, but I think this is a case of locking the barn door after the horse has already run off."

"What do you mean?' William asked.

"Well, think about it. If what Elliot, I mean Stosh– whatever he calls himself - is saying is true, whoever this is has likely been feeding information to Celina Corbin for weeks, if not longer. And nothing has happened yet, right? But you have to consider what _might _happen as soon as news spreads to the Helpers they can't come Below anymore - or can't do it without having a sentry as escort, at best. Or a full pat-down, at worst."

She looked over, caught, and held Vincent's eye.

"What I'm saying is, you're risking more by maintaining the lockdown than by going back to business as usual. The way I see it, the only advantage you have right now is that you know about this possible mole, and they don't know you know. Seems to me the smartest thing to do would be to keep it that way for as long as you can. If nothing else, it'll buy you some time to figure out who this person is without them suspecting you're on to them and all hell breaking loose before you're ready for it."

There was a medium silence while everyone took that in. Then Vincent said, "Diana makes an excellent point."

"And one more thing," she added hesitantly. "I don't want to say it, but somebody has to. I think it would be a mistake to narrow your focus on just the Helpers. For all we know, if this mole exists, it could even be someone within the community itself."

That broke the floodgates and suddenly everyone was talking at once. She caught snippets here and there, but couldn't for the life of her make enough sense of them to contribute anything more. The cacophony of outrage, disbelief, and fear her warning caused crashed over and into her. Diana felt its weight sweeping through her like caustic acid, completely scouring her out. It left her an empty shell – desiccated and hollow.

The exhaustion she'd been fighting for the past few hours settled in and began to fill up those empty spaces, until there was nothing left but that. Not even any fumes there to chug along on. All she wanted was a handful of aspirin and to lie down. Well, maybe one more thing, besides. She staggered up from the chair and jerked in surprise to find Vincent at her side, his hand reaching to grasp her elbow in support.

"Come," he urged and led her toward the stairs. As she grabbed the handrail and pulled herself up the first step, Vincent told Father, "I'll be back as quickly as I can."

Father waved them away. "Yes, yes, of course. Go on. Diana?" Even turning her head toward him was an effort, but she did it. "Thank you. I know how difficult this must have been for you. We owe you our gratitude."

"You don't owe me anything. We're square." She threw out an all-purpose wave at the 'good-nights' and 'thank-yous' called out to her from the table. Diana managed to make it out of the study and several yards beyond before she swung away from Vincent's grasp and stumbled back against the tunnel wall.

"I can't do it. I can't make it all the way to the loft."

Vincent cocked his head and gazed at her affectionately, a hint of a smile on his face. "I know."

"Yeah, 'course you do. What was I thinking?"

"You're _not_ thinking. That's the problem. You're asleep on your feet. Let's get you to the guest chamber. It's just a little ways from here."

"No, not there," she said, slowly shaking her head. Saw the realization dawning in him that she needed more than just a bed. His eyes went even softer and he reached and settled her against his side. She made the adjustment and, when she was sure her feet were firmly set under her, gave him a little nod and they started moving again.

Diana somehow made it to Vincent's chamber without passing out and stood there swaying as he hurriedly cleared books and Jacob's toys off his bed and threw back the quilts. She glanced over at the crib, not really expecting the baby to be there, and he wasn't.

Vincent noticed and explained as he opened a cabinet and pulled something out, "He's with Brooke."

She numbly looked down at the folded nightshirt he placed in her hands: one of several he must have owned. All the same: long, white linen, with thin leather laces down the front. He helped her out of her trench coat and carefully placed it over the back of his chair before he turned and steered her toward the bed and waited as she sat down.

"I must go back. They're expecting me. And then to the Pipe Chamber, to tell Pascal what's happened in council."

"Go. I'll be out as soon as my head hits the pillow anyway," she assured him.

Vincent dropped a kiss on the crown of her head and left her alone. It was habit more than need that nudged her to pull off her boots and rise from the bed just far enough to wiggle out of her jeans. Her blouse came next and she fumbled at the buttons for what felt like an eternity before she was able to shed it, too. Shivering against the sudden impact of the chilly air against her bare skin, she slipped the nightshirt over her bra and panties and dove into the big bed, turning toward the golden light of the stained-glass window and instantly falling into a deep sleep.

She roused sometime later when Vincent's weight settled beside her. Without thought Diana turned and blindly reached out, finding him on his side and facing her as he gathered her in his arms. She buried her nose in his chest, wedged a thigh between his, and tumbled back into sleep, clutching handfuls of his shirt in her fists and dreaming of an enormous, blood-red moon.

**...**

Diana swam up to consciousness slowly, and with the distinct feeling of being watched. Her eyelids fluttered as she forced them open and found she was right: Vincent was awake, his face mere inches from hers, tenderly intent on his study of her. A tiny smile had lifted the corners of his odd mouth.

"Hi," she whispered.

"Good morning."

She blinked at him languidly and did her own examination, taking in the relaxed features of his unique face, softened with sleep, and the tumbled copper-gold of his mane as it fell across his shoulder and chest and pooled beneath his jaw, thick locks of it tangled up with hers on the pillow they shared. And then back to his eyes hers went, to the calm and tranquil depths of them.

"God, you're beautiful," she breathed, afraid of breaking the fragile spelled he seemed to have cast over them.

"I was thinking the same thing," Vincent replied, matching the whispered tone she'd taken. But his deeper, rougher, and with a resonance Diana didn't think she'd heard before. She felt suddenly shy and yet deeply aroused at the same time, ducking her head to hide her face in the join of his neck and shoulder and wiggling a bit to press even closer to him.

She became aware, then, of other things - viscerally aware: the fact of her bare thigh still tucked between his; though only of the heat of his skin against hers and not skin in fact, since his legs were covered in the soft cotton of pajama pants. But mostly it was the realization of where his right hand lay.

The nightshirt he'd given her, hip length on him and only a bit longer on her, had bunched around her waist as she'd slept. Vincent's arm was under the quilts and the palm of his huge hand rested low on the outer edge of her hip, his splayed fingers curled around the curve of her bottom.

That definitely counted as a grope her in her book – and she didn't get many of those from him. Diane hummed a happy sigh and nuzzled her nose into the open neck of his shirt, the long and silky strands of fur there tickling her face. She began pressing tiny kisses on the area her rooting had exposed and then higher, on his neck and the underside of his jaw.

Vincent gave his own low murmur of approval and his large, warm hand slid under her nightshirt and up the curve of her spine and then back down to where it had started, his fingers flexing gently against her. Diana shifted, drawing her thigh even higher between his legs and Vincent went very still.

He didn't move away but he didn't continue the exploration he'd begun either. His hand remained where it was, but the wonderful kneading of her flesh stopped. Diana didn't even try to mask her disappointment as she pulled away enough to peer up at him. It was okay that he would feel her frustration, just as it was all right that he knew her desire, too - she felt the same things in him.

"No, huh?" she asked, just to be sure.

Vincent pulled his arm from under the quilts and brushed the hair away from her face. He kissed her forehead, saying, "No ... not yet. Not until I can be certain it will be safe … for both of us."

"I'm sick of safe," she sighed honestly.

"And of my vigilance, too, no doubt."

"Yeah, pretty much."

"I'm sorry for that," he said, "... and for waking you."

"Don't be," she retorted, settling against him as he rolled over on his back. "I'll take what I can get, however much - or little - it is. You know that."

She felt more than heard the deep rumble of his quiet chuckle as her cheek lay pressed against his chest. He circled his arms around her back in a loose hold.

"I must get up. I need to bathe and fetch Jacob before I test Brooke's generosity and she's less accommodating when I again require her services."

"Yeah, like that's going to happen," Diana snorted. "She'd keep him for good if she thought you'd let her get away with it."

"I _have_ been blessed with a wealth of more than suitable caretakers for my son," Vincent agreed as he pulled back the covers and slid from the bed with innate grace.

Her, she was more likely to stumble and fall out of it than do it with the moves of a dancer, the way he did. The way he moved, did everything: like a dancer, or a large cat, combining the best of watchful prowl and fluid, relaxed saunter.

Vincent suggested, "You should try to get some more sleep. It's early yet." He slipped on his robe and collected his clothes for the day, bending to scoop up his boots in one hand.

"Sure," she rejoined, "wake a girl up like that, get her blood pumping with a grope or two and then expect her to go back to sleep. Fat chance, buster."

He gave her a mischievous slantwise look and a rare toothy grin before disappearing down the passageway.

Diana lay there for a few minutes after he was gone, thinking about getting up herself. But then she shimmed a little, until she found the warm depression Vincent's body had left in the middle of the feather bed. Pulling the quilts over her head, she cocooned herself in the pervasive scent of him that permeated sheets and pillows and quilts and fell back to sleep.

Her second awakening of the day wasn't as physically pleasant, but it was nice just the same. This time it was a chubby knee in her stomach and a little hand patting determinedly at her cheek. She pried her eyes open, squinting, and found Jacob peering back at her with his father's eyes, a halo of loose, dark blonde curls framing his round face.

"Di, di, di, di!" he exclaimed, giving her a pink, gummy smile, broken by just the hint of two teeth emerging at the bottom.

"Hi, Peanut! I've missed you," Diana told him, pulling herself up against the pillows and rearranging him. She got him balanced on her lap and pushed the edge of her knuckles into his stomach. "How's my most favorite boy in the world, huh?" Jacob giggled and Diana looked over in delight at Vincent, where he stood at the foot of the bed.

"Gimme kiss," Diana requested and Jacob leaned forward and graced her with the kind of sloppy, open-mouthed kiss babies that age tended to give. She bussed him back on the cheek and said, "You're much more cooperative than your daddy - yes, you are," and then gave him a tickle. Jacob laughed and twisted away, crawling down the length of her legs and rolling over on his back between her spread feet.

She glanced up to find the look on Vincent's face she'd expected her comment to provoke: somewhere between amusement and reproach. He sat down by her feet and laid his hand on Jacob's stomach. The baby grabbed for a length of fringe on the sleeve of Vincent's shirt and stuffed it in his mouth.

"I thought we should come wake you."

"What time is it?' she asked, pushing hair out of her face and lifting her arms in a long stretch.

"You've missed breakfast, but there's still time before the noon meal is set."

"Macaroni and canned peas?"

Vincent barked a raspy laugh and she grinned in satisfaction. Diana liked those moments when she could catch him off-guard and surprise him into laughter.

"The lockdown of the Hub has been lifted," he informed her.

"I kind of figured that would happen."

"And soon enough the excuse of a false alarm should serve to explain my … less than well-considered decision last night. Although I believe I owe Pascal and Zach a gift of some kind: they were up all night sending and relaying the all-clear, and that after first dealing with the effects of my order to go on lockdown."

"I probably would have done the same thing, Vincent. The first instinct is to circle the wagons."

"You're too kind, but thank you. There are several proposals on the table at this point. Father and I will be meeting later today to discuss them at length."

"Oh, speaking of meetings …" Diana remembered, "I didn't get a chance to tell you last night: Stosh wanted me to ask if you'd think about meeting him. He wants to see you." She shrugged. "I told him I'd ask."

"Yes, of course. I would like to see him, as well. There were many things left unsaid between us. I would appreciate the opportunity to rectify that." Vincent looked aside for a minute and then back at her. "Perhaps at your loft, if it wouldn't inconvenience you? A place I'm familiar with and that Stosh might consider safe."

"Yeah, we could do that," she amiably agreed. Her loft was better than anywhere else she could think of for them to meet, Above. And that way she'd also have a built-in excuse to be there when it took place.

Diana found herself looking forward to witnessing Vincent and Stosh interacting. Theirs was a connection based solely on their mutual love for Catherine Chandler and their shared hunt for Gabriel. You had to figure there'd be lots of undercurrents to any face-to-face meeting between the two: a veritable gold mine for her of invaluable puzzle pieces that could lead to a deeper, better understanding of Vincent – and Stosh, too, who seemed like he might be back in their lives for good, in one form or another. Considering the last time the two men had seen each other they'd almost died, this meeting might shape up to be, if not a fun-filled event, certainly an interesting one.

Diana announced, "I gotta get moving, get back up top. Got a departmental meeting at three o'clock and my notes on the last case aren't nearly complete enough. Hannety will have a fit if I show up without everything just so."

She swung her legs over the side of the bed and spotted her clothes neatly folded in Vincent's big chair, her trench coat slung over the back. From the looks of it, the boot fairy had also taken the time to put a fresh polish on her Fryes while she'd slept. The chestnut leather gleamed even in the meager light of the candle-lit chamber. Diana glanced over to find Vincent placidly looking back at her.

"Can I get a little privacy here?"

He slowly rose from the bed, gathering Jacob and setting him on his hip, giving her an oddly disappointed, puzzled look.

"What?"

"It's nothing," he said. Medium silence. Then: "I find it amusing, after the events of this morning, you're so concerned with modesty."

"Tell you what," she rejoined. "Just as soon as you start walking around without a shirt on while I'm in the same room, I'd be happy to parade around with my ass hanging out."

They held a look of mutual challenge neither seemed willing to break. Jacob had gone quiet. Whether he was picking up on something from his father or simply absorbed in observing the endlessly strange behavior of grown-ups, she couldn't know.

Though it was completely out of left field for him, it occurred to her Vincent might just have wanted to get a peek at what his hand had become so familiar with earlier. The look Diana was giving him must have reflected her sudden notion because Vincent's changed, too, and she knew she'd hit the bulls-eye, especially when his cheeks flared with color.

"I'll be damned," she uttered, pleased by this new level of intimacy they seemed to have slipped into when she hadn't been looking. Spending a few odd nights here and there in the same bed - just sleeping, mind you, though wrapped in each other's arms - was paying off in ways she hadn't anticipated. "You're just full of surprises, aren't you?"

Vincent dropped his eyes, conceding their game of chicken.

"Go on, you two," she ordered with a chuckle. "Scoot. I'll come find you before I leave. Bye, Peanut!"

Jacob wriggled and bounced happily against his father, folding his fat little fingers in a wave and giving her one last gummy grin as they left the chamber.

**...**

Celina Corbin was the perfect mixture of pin-up girl and menacing waif from some kind of Edward Gory-esque sketch, Diana decided, squinting at the grainy photograph on her computer screen. Surrounded by a group of men in tuxedos, she was noticeably shorter than any of them: petite and slender, but with the kind of ripe curves Diana sometimes envied in a vague sort of way.

Gabriel's niece was turned slightly away from the camera, but her eyes were focused on the photographer, lending an air of suspicion to her overall look. She was Diana's age, maybe a bit older, with dark hair that fell from a high widow's peak in a sleek, straight curtain down her back, framing delicate yet lush features: large, hooded eyes and full lips all placed perfectly so in a heart-shaped face.

If she didn't already have reason not to like her, the single photo she'd been able to dig up of Celina would've served the purpose, had Diana been prone to that sort of pettiness. She was everything Diana had wanted to be in high school and was painfully aware she wasn't every time she'd stand before the full length mirror in her parent's bedroom and go down the list:

Tall and gangly: check. Flat-chested and no hips: check. Flaming red hair: check. Round, bulging eyes: check. Little squirrel mouth: check.

Though Diana had become comfortable in her skin since those awkward days, there were still times she wished she were less … well … Irish. But nothing could be done about it. She was what she was. And Celina Corbin, blessed though she may have been in the looks department, was still number one on Diana's enemy list.

And there was something oddly creepy about her that came through even in the photograph. Like an instant after it'd been taken Celina might have turned and plucked the eyes out of the head of the man standing next to her, and thought nothing of it.

The photo had been snapped at a European summit of bigwigs two years earlier, some kind of party where lofty financiers and business magnates had gotten together and congratulated themselves on being better than everybody else. Diana had been to functions kind of like that, with the higher-ups in the NYPD, and had hated every minute of them. Oh, she could more than hold her own in those situations, but they definitely weren't her style. Give her an old movie on TV with a cold beer in her hand over that, anytime. Or a night spent in Father's study, Jacob on her lap and Vincent standing beside her chair, secretly amused as she whipped the tar out of Father at Scrabble while trying to keep the baby from stealing all her tiles. Much better than any hoity-toity party she might get dragged to. Diana aimed a smug look at Celina's photograph and then down at her watch as she heard the roof door opening.

Vincent was early. Stosh wasn't supposed to be there for another forty-five minutes. She hit the power switch on the monitor and looked up just as he appeared in the alcove. She gave him a smile and did a quick head-to-toe check. The ubiquitous cloak, but with the hood back, which meant he'd probably been on the roof for awhile before coming down, star-gazing or something.

Nothing special about what he was wearing, she noted, as he shed the cloak and hung it on the coat rack: beige and brown linen patchwork tunic over a lightweight cream sweater and a wide leather belt at his hips, the large buckle a burnished gold. Patched up jeans and his soft boots.

Good thing she had central air in her loft. It didn't seem to matter to Vincent it was the middle of July and had been hotter than a flaming skillet the last few days. He wore his layers like armor, despite any discomfort it might cause him. Diana was okay with that: she had her own ways of covering up for protection.

"I'm early, I know," Vincent said after greeting her. "I'm not disturbing your work, am I?"

"Nope, just finishing up." She didn't offer to show him the photo she'd found. Though Vincent looked perfectly calm, she could sense his anxiousness about seeing Stosh for the first time in months - and after thinking he'd been dead the whole time. Not a bad kind of anxiety, she thought, just watchful and alert. And maybe with a bit of anticipation mixed in. Diana didn't figure seeing a picture of Celina would do him any kind of good right now. She could keep that to herself for awhile.

She joined him in the kitchen, giving his back a quick rub as she passed him on her way to the fridge. "You want anything, something to drink? I made sun tea today, how about that?"

He thought about it for a minute. "Yes, please. That sounds good."

"You just like the idea of it, don't you?" she teased. "Anything made in the sun is a good thing, right?"

That got her a little smile and he fetched a tall tumbler as she grabbed the jug. Vincent took the glass she filled for him and wandered over to the bookcase on the south wall. He looked over his shoulder at her, free hand already raised.

"May I?"

"Help yourself," she said.

He flipped the power switches on the stereo receiver and CD player and then the play button. Diana couldn't remember what she'd had in last, but instantly recognized the soft saxophone notes opening the first song of the CD: an instrumental.

Sometimes Vincent would pick out something he already knew he liked from her collection of music, but more often than not curiosity would lead him to find out what she'd been listening to last. He was as open to discovering different kinds of music as he was books or art or food or whatever else happened to pique him at any particular moment. He had a mind like a sponge, and it didn't bother him at all to ask questions less scary-smart people would hesitate to ask, for fear of being seen as dumb.

Diana watched as he listened, smiling at his back when he set his tea on the corner of the desk, head cocked to the side just a little: a mannerism she'd learned meant he was liking whatever was going on.

"Van Morrison," she told him before he could ask. "_Spanish Steps_."

"Ah," he replied, turning to her. "Van the Man."

That got him an even bigger grin. He was so quick to pick up on and remember things she'd said to him in passing over the months. Small stuff, throw-away stuff anybody else would hear and forget about a second later. But not Vincent: mind like a sponge.

"This piece has a Miles Davis influence," he decided. "Don't you think?"

"If you say so, babe."

He turned back and listened intently for another minute. Then he plopped down on the floor in front of the couch, one knee drawn up and the other folded in front of him. Diana sat down behind him and he scooched back until he was sitting between her knees. He braced an arm across her leg and leaned back into the hands that settled high on his shoulders. She pushed through his thick mane and dug her thumbs into the muscles at the back of his neck.

"I think Father might enjoy some of Mr. Morrison's work," Vincent said after a bit, rolling his head to let her hit all the spots that needed attention. "He sometimes talks of the jazz clubs he would visit … before he came Below. Perhaps someday …?"

"Sure, bring him up any time. Just give me enough warning I can make the place presentable."

"No," Vincent responded quickly. "Some other way."

She stopped the neck rub and waited.

"It's selfish of me, I know. But there are things … I would rather not share with anyone else. Here with you … like this." He looked over his shoulder at her. "Is one of them."

"Then you just be selfish," Diana told him, thumbs digging back in. "It's okay to do that every once and awhile. God knows you've earned it."

They both went quiet then, content with each other, and the music, and their easy rapport. It was just as Diana had discovered - and Vincent was explaining - the tiny braid twisted into his mane just above and a little behind his left ear, that her intercom buzzed, startling them both. Vincent unfolded and was on his feet faster than she thought possible and Diana pushed off the couch, shut down the stereo, and went to the speaker box on the wall.

"Yeah?"

"Diana, it's me. Stosh."

She pressed the speaker button a second time. "You alone?"

"Yeah."

She flicked her eyes at Vincent and he nodded and went to the kitchen, coming to a stop between the island and the wall of windows there.

"Fifth floor," she told Stosh, hitting the button to unlock the inner door of the first floor vestibule. The elevator started grinding its way up and she pushed back the tall interior gate before giving Vincent one more glance. He looked like a storybook warrior prince magically transported into the middle of her unremarkable loft - and her formally unremarkable life – massive and solemn and shining golden in the glow cast by the hanging lights over the island. She wondered for a second if Stosh had ever seen Vincent in any situation other than under cover of darkness and wrapped in his cloak.

The elevator door creaked open and she slid back the shorter metal gate and stepped aside to let Stosh into the loft. He jerked a nervous smile at her and immediately scanned the room from right to left, finally spotting Vincent. The men studied each other for what felt to Diana like a long time and she realized she was holding her breath. Then Vincent took a step forward.

"Stosh. It's good to see you."

"Hello, Vincent."

The former Elliot Burch did an odd little half twist and started walking toward him, his right leg stiff, like all the bendiness had gone out of it. Diana remembered his fluid movements from before the explosion, and also that he'd never left the booth at their meeting at the pub. So she'd had no reason to see it before now: another injury he'd sustained then, on top of the more visible scar bisecting his face and the gunshot wound to his back.

Vincent met him halfway, reaching to grasp the hand offered him.

"Stosh," he murmured unhappily, "you've lost a leg."

"Eh, only half of one. Still getting used to the prosthesis." He bent and knocked against his lower leg with a fist. A hollow, plastic sound came from where flesh and bone should've been. "All I need now is a patch over my eye and a parrot on my shoulder. I could be a pirate."

And then Vincent was leading him to the couch and asking him if he needed anything: coffee, tea, perhaps one of the chairs at her dining table if it would be more comfortable for him. Diana hung back and just let them be, puttering around in the kitchen and starting a pot of coffee for her and Stosh.

She tried not to eavesdrop too blatantly as she played hostess, keeping quiet and filling mugs and Vincent's glass, handing them out before settling into the armchair across from where the two men occupied opposite corners of the couch. But not listening was difficult to do in such small confines. Besides, she wanted to hear what they had to say to each other.

They talked about the explosion on the _Compass Rose_ first, that being their last contact, and Stosh explained how he'd been found by a night watchman at the docks and persuaded him, by means of the five hundred dollars in his wallet, into not calling the police but an old friend of Stosh's instead, someone he'd known for years who was an ER doctor at St. Vincent's. His friend had patched up his gunshot and shrapnel wounds as best he could and had gotten him out of the city. And then Elliot Burch had done a disappearing act of major proportions.

His leg had been amputated above the knee almost four months earlier, when the shrapnel wound he'd suffered to his lower leg hadn't healed properly and a raging infection had set it. Though Stosh didn't tell them where he'd been when it'd happened, Diana figured it was somewhere with less than top-notch medical facilities – likely one of the less-populated islands in the Caribbean.

"What about you, Vincent?" Stosh was asking. "How'd you come out of it?"

Vincent dropped his eyes for a beat before looking back up: at her instead of Stosh. He held her eye.

"Diana found me. At Catherine's grave. Brought me here. Tended my wounds. Helped me … begin to heal." He gave Stosh his attention again. "She saved my life. And that of my son's."

"Yeah, the baby. I was wondering about him. Does he … I mean, is he …"

"Like me?" Vincent finished. "No, he is not like me. Jacob will be of both worlds ... as Catherine was. He's beautiful, Stosh, and looks so like her."

Stosh's face had slowly begun to twist at Vincent's words, the angry scar across his face growing even pinker. "I'm glad you agreed to see me, Vincent," he said haltingly. "I didn't know if you would or not, after what I did. I wouldn't blame you if hated me: almost selling you out like that. But I had to see for myself, to know you were okay. To ask if you could forgive me for what I – "

He broke off in a choked sob and covered his face in his hands. Diana glanced over at Vincent, shocked and puzzled by Stosh's sudden collapse into tears, but Vincent was already off the couch and squatting on one knee beside him.

"You mustn't blame yourself for what happened, Stosh," he told him, compassion thick in his voice. "What you did, in the end, is all that matters. You willingly took a bullet that was meant for me. No one can expect more from a friend than that."

Stosh dropped his hands and forced out a derisive laugh. "Yeah, some friend," he said, swiping at wet cheeks. "C'mon, Vincent, friendship had nothing to do with it. I did what I did for Cathy and the baby, not for you. Even after she was dead I was still trying to win her back. And what does that say about me? I almost betrayed you because … because I was jealous of you, and what you had with Cathy that I never did."

"It may have begun that way," Vincent pointed out. "But what you did were the actions of a friend. You cannot convince me this is not so." He laid his hand on the other man's knee. "Know this, Stosh, and take comfort in it: Catherine loved you, too."

Stosh's face crumpled again, fresh tears gathering in his eyes. "No …"

"Yes. It's true. You must never doubt that."

"Maybe ... at one time she did. But she still loved you more."

Vincent unfolded from his crouch and sat back down on his corner of the couch, perching on the edge. He folded his hands and braced elbows on knees; his somber gaze staying locked on Stosh until the man lifted his head and met that steady look.

"Love is not something to be measured, Stosh. It simply is. To compare one love to another is to dishonor all love, for it is something boundless and immeasurable … and requires no comparisons. Catherine's love was a gift … to both of us. It is to be treasured, as any gift should be. Not with an eye to examine it, one love against another, but simply with an open heart to receive it, in whatever its form … and be glad of it. That is what Catherine would want … for both of us. So let us not discuss this further. You may trust that my words are true and are said with much affection to someone I consider my friend. I can only hope you feel as I do, and will know there is nothing to be forgiven."

Diana took that moment to rise from the arm chair, wiping away a tear of her own. Vincent looked up at her from the corner of his eye, seeking her acknowledgement that his declaration wasn't meant just for Stosh. She knew Vincent had to have felt in her, from time to time and when she was feeling less than worthy, a sadness that she might never be as important to him as Catherine had been. Or that their love for each other would never quite measure up to what he'd shared with Catherine.

Vincent had never spoken to her of her doubts before now. But as with so many things over the months, he'd managed to say exactly the right thing and at just the perfect moment. And she wondered if she could possibly love him any more than she did right then. Somehow she didn't think so, for it was boundless.

Yes.

She made herself useful, grabbing a box of tissues from the desk and setting it in the middle of the couch, refilling coffee mugs and rinsing out Vincent's glass when he declined more tea. Vincent began telling Stosh about what had happened once he'd recovered from his own injuries; the story of how he'd finally been able to bring Jacob home, occasionally looking to her for clarification, or to fill in gaps the story he was relating made apparent to him.

Diana took note of the way Stosh slowly relaxed into the couch as the minutes passed, the tension leaving his body and giving way to an attentive listening and interested questions. They even managed to share a chuckle or two, the three of them, despite the gravity of the conversation.

Vincent was tucked into his corner of the couch, one arm slung over the back and legs crossed at the knee as he and Stosh talked. She unthinkingly ruffled his hair as she passed by him on her way back from the coffee pot and Vincent rewarded her with an easy smile. She glanced at Stosh just then and found his eyes moving inquisitively between the two of them.

Diana caught his look and held it, open to whatever her challenge might provoke him to do or say. There was a beat before Stosh scrubbed his mouth, covering a secret smile, and cocked an eyebrow at her in response. And then the moment passed. If he was going to say anything about what he suspected might be going on with her and Vincent, it wasn't going to be then. Diana was fine with that.

If Vincent had taken any notice of what had just passed between them, he made no indication of it. But, of course, that meant nothing. Vincent was the poster child for playing things close to the vest when he wanted to.

The subject then moved on to Celina Corbin, and that was pretty much a rehash of Diana's first meeting with Stosh. Vincent had bitten the bullet a few days earlier and had listened to the entire recording in preparation for that night; his need to know all that'd been said overriding his utter distaste at hearing particular parts of it a second time.

"I know a little more than I did last time we talked, Diana," Stosh was saying now. "Celina left Rome a couple weeks ago headed to somewhere in Eastern Europe. Some sort of pilgrimage, my guy tells me. God knows what that means when you're talking about the Corbins: fucking nut jobs, all of them. But I got a message from him earlier today and he found out she's coming to the states next. The order came in to some of her personal staff, and a few of the family-connected corporate heads, to start making preparations to relocate in about a month, the end of August, and for an indefinite period of time."

"Relocate where?" Diana asked, already feeling as though a nest of snakes had taken up residence in her gut.

Stosh flicked his eyes at Vincent and then focused on her. "Right here in the city. Celina's coming to Manhattan."

Without thought, Diana left the desk she'd been leaning against and sat down on the couch between the two men, her back to Vincent, partially blocking Stosh's view of him. And then realized it'd been an unconscious gesture of protection on her part: trying to block and absorb whatever affects Stosh's words might be having on Vincent, so their impact wouldn't be so bad. He'd gone very still behind her and yet was busy throwing up internal barriers so real to her she could almost hear the dull thud of each brick being placed, one on top of another.

"Do you know where?" Diana asked.

"They've rented out several floors of an office building in the financial district. And the family owns a penthouse on 5th Avenue. They've got an estate in Connecticut, too, but I don't know if Celina's planning to use it while she's here."

"Can you get me addresses?"

"Yeah, that shouldn't be a problem. Give me a few days."

Stosh suddenly shifted, beginning the laborious process of coming off the couch, and Vincent shot to his feet behind her. She felt a surge of wariness roll through him, as though Stosh's smallest movements were now somehow a threat. Diana reached back without looking, her hand landing on Vincent's thigh.

"It's okay. Relax," she quickly assured him,

Stosh paused halfway up, cautiously scrutinizing them. And then all his attention was on Vincent as he got his artificial leg under him and stood straight. Diana saw in his face an earnest appeal, along with a healthy respect for Vincent and what Stosh knew he was capable of.

"I'm not the enemy here, Vincent," he said evenly. "I'm in this thing just as deeply as you are, you know that. I'm here to help, in whatever way I can. You told me earlier to trust you. Now I'm asking you to do the same for me. This isn't for Cathy anymore, or even for the baby. This is for you and me. I want it to end. I want the nightmare to be over. I want to be able to dream dreams again. You, of all people, should understand that."

Diana felt the tension gradually dissipating in Vincent and let her hand drop. He sighed heavily behind her.

"Of course, Stosh," he said. "Forgive me. You have my trust: now … as you have in the past. I appreciate what you've done here tonight and the news you've brought us. We will begin making whatever plans we're able to, in light of this new information. I thank you."

Diana stayed on the couch as Vincent took Stosh by the elbow and led him to the elevator. Stosh thanked her for the hospitality and promised to contact her as soon as he had addresses for her. The elevator door slid open.

Then Vincent did something that surprised her for the few moments it took to glean his intent: he reached and pulled Stosh into an embrace that lasted maybe ten seconds. Stosh hesitantly lifted his arms halfway through and returned it. Then he stepped into the elevator and was gone.

Diana worriedly searched Vincent's face as he turned to her.

"Well?"

Walking back toward her, nodding, he said, "His heart is good. And his words are true. Stosh will not betray us."

That was good enough for her. If she couldn't trust the keen senses of a fully functioning empath, and one whose abilities were magnified tenfold by touch, then what could she trust?

"How about one of those hugs for me?"

Vincent opened his arms and she rose and stepped into them.

"So," she said after a long time, "we have about a month to figure this out then."

"Yes …" Vincent released a long breath. "It would seem so."

What Diana was thinking, but wasn't yet ready to say out loud, was that it was unlikely as hell Celina's timing was just a coincidence: because in a little less then six weeks Jacob would be turning a year old. And his birthday was also, necessary, the first anniversary of Catherine's death; an occasion that would resonate deeply within Vincent, and probably on more levels than either of them could even begin to imagine.

If Vincent was going to be vulnerable to attack - and, by extension, the community Below - it would be in those days bracketing the anniversary. When he'd likely find it damn near impossible to concentrate on anything more complex than putting one foot in front of the other and fighting off urges to throw himself into the Abyss. They shared that knowledge to start working from and toward some kind of plan, anyway. But how much good knowing it would end up doing either one of them remained to be seen.

Diana clung a little tighter, squeezing her eyes shut as Vincent mirrored her fierce embrace. They held to each other like children caught in the middle of a sudden, terrifying storm of uncertainty and danger. While outside her loft, in the middle of a vast and clear evening sky filled with stars, a full moon hung whitely.

© Lydia Bower 2012


	3. Book Three:Gravity & the Fear of Falling

3. Gravity & the Fear of Falling

"_I know the power of love."_

If she weren't so obsessive-compulsive, Diana might have missed it. But because she'd set up her online CityNet account almost a year earlier to flag anything related in any way to Catherine Chandler and her former life, the police report of the break-in two days earlier at a storage facility downtown greeted her as she sipped her first cup of morning coffee.

Three phone calls and twenty-five minutes later established that the storeroom in question had been the only one robbed in the facility; it was the first reported break-in there in almost two years; the renter – who'd paid three years in advance – was, in fact, the estate of one Catherine Ann Chandler, and that Dr. Peter Alcott was the executor of said estate.

Diana had met Peter at Winterfest and had seen him a few times since, usually in Father's study sharing tea and trading with him what amounted to medical small talk. She hadn't really paid much attention. But he seemed like a nice enough guy, and Father had known him for years. That had to count for something.

She tracked Peter down at his office and was put on hold long enough to decide she'd rather stab herself in the ear with a pencil than listen to any more inane muzak. She was getting ready to hang up and call back when Peter came on the line.

"Diana, it's nice to talk to you again. But I can't say I'm surprised you're calling."

One point in Peter's favor: he cut through the bullshit and got right down to things.

"So the police have contacted you about the break-in?"

"Yes, just yesterday. I knew it was only a matter of time before I heard from you. The last time I spoke to Jacob he mentioned there'd been some unfortunate events concerning a possible breach of security down there, and where it'd originated. Jacob assumed you'd be keeping a close eye on anything that might turn up on your end of things."

_Jacob._ Her brain had stalled for half a second before she could stop thinking _baby _and start thinking _Father_.

"Yeah, we're working on that," she said. "So what can you tell me? What was in the storeroom?" Diana tucked the receiver under her chin and moved the phone cradle from the table to the kitchen island. The cord on the receiver unraveled like a Slinky as she stretched to reach the coffee pot and refill her mug.

"Not much. Most of the contents of her apartment were sold at auction once the requests in Cathy's will had been met. But there were three or four pieces of furniture remaining. And I kept a few of her more personal things. I thought perhaps someday young Jacob might appreciate having them. Or Vincent, as the case may be. He was far too distraught then to be of any help when it came to making decisions of that sort. It's probably a very good thing the trust is in Jacob's name. Vincent likely would've given it all away."

"Jacob … Father, right? There's a trust?"

"Yes, I'm sorry," Peter said. "It does get a bit confusing with two Jacobs, doesn't it? Cathy left the bulk of her estate in Father's name. It must have seemed the less complicated route to her, rather than trying to leave it in Vincent's name, which would have been a very sticky situation indeed." That brought a wry chuckle through the phone line. "Of course, the will was drafted before any of us thought it possible she and Vincent could ever have a child."

_Of course_, Diana thought cynically. It still baffled her sometimes how Vincent's family, and of course Vincent himself, were so very aware of his differences, when all she saw were the similarities. Sure, on an intellectual level she knew how he differed; the dichotomy of merciless predator and soulful scholar sharing the same mind and body though, according to Vincent himself, less at odds and fractured than before; the sometime spooky empathic and precognitive skills he possessed. And her eyes happily reminded her of the outward differences every time she saw him – and every time just as breathtaking as the first - but he was just a man, in all the ways that mattered to her. Maybe someday she'd be able to convince Vincent of that. The rest of them could go pound sand.

Peter was saying, "Just the physiological differences alone should have ruled out the possibility."

_Miracles trump physiology_, Diana thought, but didn't say it out loud. After all, what was any baby, if not a miracle?

"But that's neither here nor there, is it?" Peter went on. "Young Jacob has proven us all wrong. Now what was I saying? Oh, yes. The trust ended up coming in just short of six million dollars. Father instructed me to distribute a fair amount of it to certain charities. They don't have much use for money Below; it's just more paper to them, can you imagine? The remainder has been set aside in young Jacob's name, and will become accessible to him when he turns twenty-one. He will want for nothing should he decide to begin a life Above, once he's reached that age."

"How hard would it be to move the money around?" Diana asked. "Maybe transfer the funds somewhere else and under a different name?"

"I suppose that could be done, but why?"

"Let's just say I don't like the idea of money, or anything else, out there with his name attached to it just now. I don't like to leave loose ends hanging for somebody else to come along and pick up."

There was a medium silence. Then: "Ah, I see your point. I'll take care of it right away."

"Good. Now, about what was in the storeroom …?"

"Yes. Well of course none of the furniture was taken. Just the few boxes. Let me think."

Diana tapped impatient fingers on the island and chugged a swallow of tepid coffee.

"There were books," Peter finally said. "Photographs. Her mother's vanity set. A few knick-knacks I thought might've been important to Cathy. Nothing of real value, except sentimentally. A few articles of clothing. Some of her record albums. The contents of her desk."

Even though Diana was certain everything in the apartment had been taken into evidence – or quietly pilfered by yours truly and passed on to Vincent later - she had to ask: "Nothing with Vincent's name on it? Cards, books, letters?"

Peter's sigh came through clearly. "Yes: the contents of her safe deposit box. There were several things from him. I didn't give it any thought, Diana, I'm sorry. Who could have known a year later it would come back to haunt us?"

"Don't worry about it. Like you said, you couldn't have known. None of us could." She pinched the bridge of her nose, thinking, and asked, 'Listen, for the time being, can we keep this between the two of us? No sense getting anyone riled up about this until we know there's a reason, right?"

She didn't think she had to mention by name the anyone she was referring to.

"I bow to your judgment on this, Diana. I won't say anything to him."

"Great, thanks. I appreciate that. Look, if you think of anything else-"

"I'll contact you right away. I really must get going. I have a waiting room full of pregnant women and they're not generally known for their patience."

"Sure. Thanks. Bye."

Diana hung up the phone and stood gnawing on her lower lip for a while. When that didn't elicit any answers, she headed for the shower, hoping the steam would clear her mind enough to figure out why Celina Corbin would want Cathy's personal possessions. Because Diana had no doubt Gabriel's niece was behind the break-in. No doubt at all.

It was five weeks and counting till Jacob's birthday.

**...**

"Signorina Celina, le scatole sono arrivati dagli Stati Uniti."

Celina Corbin turned away from the window looking out onto the grounds of the estate to the young woman standing in the doorway of her suite.

"In English please, Teresa. You must practice if you are to master the language."

"Mi scusi, Signorina. The boxes have arrived from the states. Where would you like them?"

"Have them brought up here. And then see if Arianna is about. I need to speak to her. But I don't want her disturbed if she's in the lower levels. Is that understood?"

"Si. Yes. Right away, Mistress."

Celina turned back to the window and her interrupted thoughts. She was weary and anxious. Arianna was a hard taskmaster and insisted that dark work be done in the equal darkness of night. Celina had always found it difficult to sleep during the day and so had gotten little of it since her arrival in Budapest. She could only hope what was contained within the boxes Teresa had spoken of would be of some use.

She had to make certain all was to her advantage before she arrived in New York City. She had studied the videotapes for countless hours, had listened time and again to the recordings of her phone calls with the informant. Had memorized the dossiers of all the key players. Celina knew there could be no margin of error, no smallest detail overlooked. She had no wish to be eviscerated, torn limb from limb. Celina was certain that kind of death was much more pleasant in the giving than the receiving.

As she stood watching the gardeners busy about their work below her, she held no hesitation toward the task she'd given herself. Yes, it would be difficult and would test every skill of magic she'd learned from Arianna over the years, but if she succeeded the rewards would be priceless.

He was magnificent. The perfect alchemy of what which was most primal and yet most human. He was frightening and beautiful and deadly, but with the capacity to love, and love deeply. Intelligent and well-spoken, yet furred and feline, armed with claws and fangs and a cruel strength that belied his gentle voice.

He was a dark prince clothed in light. A warrior. A lover. A father. And a most worthy companion for her. Celina was determined to make him hers, whatever it took.

He would not surrender himself. That much she knew. She wasn't foolish enough to think she could win his consent through her usual means of persuasion: money was of no value to him. He wasn't afraid of pain, or of death. Nor would her seductive tools of whispered promises and skilled hands and lips persuade him. He was not the weakling she'd found most others to be: steered by base need and desire, willing to give up their secrets and often their lives for nothing more than a few moments of bliss and whispered declarations of false affection. No, he was ruled only by the single thing she'd come to understand he yearned for above all else: love.

And that was the one thing Celina could not give him. Not from her own heart, which long ago had turned on itself and was damaged beyond any hope of repair. No gentle emotion touched her, no person in her life who could earn more than her passing, considered thought of advantage and gain. Not until now. Not until she had seen him and known he could give her what she lacked.

But he wouldn't do it willingly, not for her, not as she was now. Without her magical cloak of armor, he would look at her and see her for what she truly was. He would hate her and she would die for it. But if she could accomplish what she'd sought out Arianna's help to do, then she would be worthy of him. And when that happened he would come to her of his own accord, time and again, until he could no longer live without her and the choice to stay would be his – as it must be, for she would not have him as her prisoner. She would accept no less of him than as both gift and giver.

Celina's eyes slipped shut and her mind flooded with the image of him, golden and brutal. She whispered a single word, his name, like a prayer.

"Vincent."

**...**

_Is it possible for one to grow weary of embraces?_ Vincent wondered as he plodded his way back to his chamber. _If so, I have most surely reached my limit this day._

The idea had been Diana's.

"Use what you got," she'd suggested. "You're an empath: go be an empath. Go out amongst your people," she'd added, half-jokingly, "and start passing out hugs. See what you can pick up. Maybe you'll find yourself a spy."

Vincent had made mention then of Paracelsus' success at infiltrating Catherine's first Winterfest, after killing Lou the barber and taking on his appearance. Vincent had sensed nothing amiss that night, not until he'd found Narcisssa so badly injured. He'd feared Diana had more faith in his gift than it deserved.

"So you had an off night. And you were with Catherine," she'd reasoned. "Probably too busy making googly eyes at each other to pay attention to anything else. I know how single-mindedly focused you can get. This'll be different: it'll be one on one."

He'd given it some thought and the next morning had awakened with Diana's task in mind. Over the next several days Vincent had visited Helpers and tunnel folk alike, starting with those he knew he could trust beyond thought, as a sort of means of comparison for those he knew less well.

Though Vincent had always before made it a priority to maintain some sort of contact with all the members of the community, as well as the Helpers Above, he knew that precedence had changed, lessened in importance with the advent of Catherine in his life. Everything had changed then, beginning with himself.

So it was with an honest sense of regret for his extended neglect that he'd been traveling the tunnels Below during the day and dark alleys Above at night, reconnecting with and reevaluating the friends and family who peopled his life. And so far, his search had been fruitless.

Vincent absently tapped out his location as he reached the outer perimeter of the Hub. He found his thoughts shifting from who might have betrayed his world and his trust to the two women he knew never would: Diana and Catherine. Outwardly and on the surface, two more different people could not have existed. He imagined they might have become friendly acquaintances, had Catherine lived and they'd met under the proper circumstances. But not true friends: Catherine would have been put off by Diana's bluntness, and Diana by Catherine's tendency to address uncomfortable issues obliquely.

Neither method could be said to be the optimal one, for differing circumstances called for implementing differing methods, a trait Vincent recognized was strong within him, and without any sense of pride in claiming so. To him it was merely a result of his empathic gift: he could always sense and understand both sides of any issue.

No, Vincent thought, it was in the uncommon strength they shared where the two women converged. And though each wore it differently, it shown through in every aspect of themselves and their lives: Catherine's outer softness belied her inner steeliness; Diana's tough skin disguised her tender heart. He loved both of them deeply and with all that he was.

It didn't seem strange to him that he thought of Catherine in the present, though she was almost a year in her grave - for she lived within him and always would. He found even now he looked for her: around the curve of the Long Hall or just inside the drainage tunnel in the park, or under her apartment building – a place he now rarely visited – spots where they'd met countless times. The pain of realizing anew, in those moments, that she was truly gone was a less sharp one now, more a blow than a knife's edge, but still too keen to be easily set aside.

What he was finding most difficult now, in these weeks leading to the anniversary of Catherine's death, was the loss of her unique presence: the way she'd felt to him, within. Every person Vincent encountered, from as far back as he could remember, had their own essence, their own life's spirit that set them apart from everyone else. Some were stronger than others, affecting him in such a way he could often see an aura of color surrounding them, each a different shade and hue. A rainbow of souls, and of the very essence of life. Catherine had had such an aura. As did Father. Stosh. Jamie. Samantha. Mouse. And Diana, whose was most vivid of all.

Vincent knew if forced to, he could be put into a room and all senses but one taken from him, and he would still know who stood before him, with nothing more than a touch. For that one touch could open up a sixth sense, and a swirling, often chaotic world of emotions not his own, but which he couldn't help but share. He didn't need physical contact to use his gifts, but it nonetheless was essential to him. Touch had, and always would, shape his world and how he placed himself in it.

He would never forget the first time Catherine had reached out and embraced him, in the sub-basement of her building, after he'd led her home that first time, and as his heart was breaking knowing he'd never see this bright angel again. But then she had embraced him. _Him_, furred and fanged, a creature who dreamed dark dreams and yet yearned for the kind of love he'd only experienced through the words of others, and the stronger emotions of passion and desire that came to him unbidden, and were quickly blocked, from those he lived among, and those he encountered during walks down the dark streets and alleyways Above.

Catherine had laid her cheek on his chest that day, and he had dared to reach out and gather her closer. And she hadn't pulled away. She had accepted him and done so with a single touch. And a hope had been borne - one that still lived within him. A different shape, with different desires: for he was not the man with Diana he'd been with Catherine, but still, a hope.

Vincent found himself missing the childlike innocence of the vision he'd dreamt for himself and Catherine, though not the man he'd been then. He was older now, wiser – at least he hoped so – and more pragmatic. And most certainly less susceptible to mindless rages that ended in blood and scarlet nightmares that haunted him for weeks after.

An inexperienced romantic's dreams had become a battle-scarred man's desires. Tempered now, by Catherine's death and the events that'd followed, but an imagined future no less precious than what he'd dreamt before. Because Diana had given him back to him hope, something he hadn't believed he'd ever know again. Not in those darkest of days. She had given him that, and the glimpse of a new life beyond.

Diana had begun as no one he was prepared to love. He'd been grateful for her help after the explosion of the _Compass Rose_: for saving his life. But her insistence that she be allowed to help in his search for Jacob had angered him in ways he hadn't wanted to consider then. His stubborn refusal at the beginning had come not from any distrust, for she had quietly earned that from the beginning.

He could even pinpoint the day: his third at her loft, waking on her hardwood floor in the brightness of daylight to find her curled up sleeping in a chair just a few feet away. Looking around her bedroom, with the visible signs of the damage he'd wrought in his healing, he'd marveled that she could be so trusting and unafraid she would allow herself to be at her most vulnerable, in the same room and with him so close.

Vincent had begun to realize through that long day, as they'd talked when he would allow himself, or simply sitting quietly as they'd shared grilled cheese sandwiches and tomato soup, that he already felt with her a level of comfort and trust that would've taken years to develop with most anyone else. But not so with Diana: it had been immediate, and so had been deeply disconcerting to him.

That was the source of his anger then, and his need to exclude her from his life as swiftly as she'd included him in hers. He hadn't wanted that kind of connection with anyone, especially not so soon after losing Catherine. He'd been upset with Diana for being able to touch him so deeply, though it was nothing done purposely, or with any kind of forethought. It was something neither of them could have imagined and seemed to him, then, to be more a cruel trick of fate than a blessing. And so he'd tried his best to push her away. But she had refused to go. Not because of anything she'd wanted from him, but because of what she'd needed to give. And what she gave him still: everything.

Vincent was pulled from his thoughts by a group of the younger children heading toward him, their boisterous laughter reaching him long before he could see them. Their combined happiness washed through him in warm waves of pleasure and he found himself smiling as they came around the curve of the passageway.

Their lilting voices greeted him in a discordant chorus of hellos and he touched the tops of passing heads and returned high-fives to a few of the children as they passed, acknowledging the numerous invitations to join them in a game in the tunnels later, after the evening meal.

Then he collected Jacob from the nursery and headed to the Commons, finding himself smiling again through supper, and for no particular reason. Though weary and feeling scrubbed raw from within by his earlier travels, he also found himself enjoying a renewed contentment in being where he was and whom he was with: his family, his safety and sanctuary. Diana would be there soon, as well, and that brought another smile, unchecked enough that even Cullen remarked on it.

His mood made no sense in light of the events of the last weeks and what might await him in the uncertain near future, but Vincent found himself wishing not to question it. It was enough, just now, to enjoy it and set aside his usual solemnity for this simple pleasure. For now it was enough to be happy. And to be aware of how blessed he was.

**...**

"It will not help, child. These things will do you no good."

Celina looked up from the photographs in her hand and at Arianna. The older woman, waist-length silver hair drawn up in bun that accentuated the sharp planes of her face, gazed back placidly.

Celina slapped the photographs down on the table and rose from her chair. "But I can feel her!" she argued. "Even _I_ can sense her in these objects."

Arianna waved away her argument. "A sense, yes, but not enough. We need a seed from which to grow the magic you'll require. These things," she waved at the contents of the boxes before her, "are only the imaginings of a seed; a ghostly presence that has no true substance. You must have more than this."

"Then what am I to do, Arianna?" Celina's fists were tightly clenched in an effort to keep from striking the woman. Instead she snatched a crystal butterfly from the table and hurled it against the stone wall. It shattered into a thousand tiny shards, littering the Persian rug at their feet. Spinning back to face the sorceress, Celina demanded, "Where would you suggest I find this seed? Shall I have her body dug up and brought here? Would that give you enough to work with?"

"You'd do well to dull that sharp tongue of yours, child. I owe no debt to you. I do this by choice and can just as easily withdraw my generous offer of help."

The two women glared at each other from a small distance. Celina eventually dropped her eyes and turned away.

Arianna continued, "This need is not mine, Celina, nor is the magic that will be required to do this thing as you wish it to be done. I offer you only advice and to teach you the skills you will need. When the time comes to cast the spell, its success will rest squarely on your shoulders. I will not be there to help should something go amiss. Now, what is the first thing I taught you?"

Celina sighed, "That anger blinds. That a spell must be cast with a mind free of all strong emotion."

"Precisely. You must clear your mind of all such things. Nothing must stand in the way of the magic's ability to move through you, to make you its own. Not anger, nor hate, nor love: only your will that a thing be done and your talents to make it so. Bringing the body here will do you as little good as these objects have done. She is nothing but bones, child, and they can't give you what you require. You must go to the source."

"Need I remind you the source is dead?" Celina bit off each word, despite Arianna's warning. She had little patience for anything standing in the way of what she desired. And though she had respect for the sorceress' powers, she also knew a bullet in the old woman's brain as she slept would eliminate, quite nicely, any threat those powers might pose to her.

"Have you lost all sense of imagination?" Arianna rebuked. "If so, you are in more dire straits than I thought and are foolish to take on this task. The source lives, Celina, and in abundance. If you could see past your rage, for just a moment's time, you would have your answer."

"The child?" she quickly asked.

"No, not the child."

"Well, then what? Where else might I –" Celina stopped and wheeled back to Arianna, a cold smile adorning her full lips. "It's him isn't it? _He_ is the source."

Arianna returned the smile with a small nod. "Very good, my dear. She lives in him. That is your answer. Within him lies everything you need to make this work."

"Then I must make different plans. It cannot happen as we'd first thought."

"No. And those plans must be changed quickly. You're running out of time."

Celina returned to her chair. Reaching, she pulled Arianna's bony hand into hers. "Will you help me then? Help me set this new course I must take?"

Arianna set her free hand on top of Celina's and patted it affectionately. "Of course I will, child. La mia conoscenza è il vostro."

**...**

Diana chuckled as she made her way out of the Long Hall and took a left into the tunnel leading down to the next level. Vincent was playing hide and seek with the younger kids. Not exactly what she'd been expecting to hear when she'd found Father and Jacob hanging out in the study and had asked the old man where Vincent had gone off to. She stayed to chat for a few minutes and love up on the baby while she had the chance. She'd even felt magnanimous enough to lay a kiss on Father's cheek before she left - something that earned her a bemused look in return.

He wasn't such a bad old guy, once you got past the stodginess and his ever-present need to protect his very large and well-armed, not-so-innocent thirty-five year old son from the evils of the world Above – which she was sure included her.

Diana was moving at a steady pace, down into a section of the tunnels near the Chamber of the Falls, where the flow of water eons ago had created numerous nooks and crannies along the passageways; an area Father had told her was ideal for games of hide and seek and had been used as such for as long as there'd been children in the community.

Just then Ursula came barreling toward her, pig tails bouncing and seven-year old legs carrying her as fast as they could, too busy looking over her shoulder to pay any attention to what was ahead.

"Whoa!" Diana warned, reaching to grab her before they had a head-on collision. "Gotta watch where you're going, kiddo."

Ursula spun and hid herself behind Diana. "Shhhhh," she warned, "I think Caleb heard me." She peeked around. Then a few seconds later: "Okay, I think I made a clean get-away. Hi, Diana!"

"Hi, Ursula. So is Caleb It?"

She got an enthusiastic head bob in response.

"Hey, have you seen Vincent?"

Ursula pursed her lips and twisted up her face in a childish display of dismissal. "He's hiding somewhere. But I don't think Caleb's looking for him very hard. Nobody ever does."

Diana whooped a laugh and slapped a hand over her mouth to stifle it. "No fun when he's It, huh?"

"No," the girl responded with a little whine. "He's way too good. Nobody can hide from Vincent for very long."

"I'll bet."

"I gotta go! Bye, Diana!"

"See ya, sweetheart."

Diana got maybe another thirty yards when Caleb passed her in a blur of patchwork and fringe, too intent on his target to give her more than a wide grin as he shot off the way she'd come.

She figured she must be getting closer to the action, as she could hear a few high-pitched giggles ahead of her. The tunnel ended at a Y intersection and she chose the left-hand side, it being the quieter way. Hiding or hunting, she knew Vincent was likely to take the path no one else would. She was still snickering over what Ursula had said when a cloaked arm shot out of a wide fissure in the rock, a clawed hand snatching and pulling her into it.

Diana wound up wedged face-to-face against Vincent in a dark crack just wide enough for the two of them, with a few inches of give on either side and extending back another six feet or so. It was too dark to see much, but she caught the gleam of Vincent's eyes as he pulled her deeper into the crack with him.

"Well, hello, sailor," she greeted him happily.

"Diana."

"Hide and go seek, huh?"

"I had no choice. The children made plain to me earlier that my presence was required for this evening's game. What could I do?"

Her eyes were adjusting to the deeper dark and Diana got a better look at him. His expression wasn't giving much away, but she could see the twinkle in his eye and liked it - liked it very much.

"Yeah, I bet they really had to twist your arm, didn't they?"

They were inches apart and grinning at each other like kids sharing a wonderful secret. Vincent was radiating waves of contentment. And something deeper, an indefinable thread of emotion that felt almost like an acknowledgement and acceptance. Of what, Diana didn't know - but feeling it in him, it resonated within her too, like he'd thumbed a cord pulled taut between them and now they both vibrated with it. It was bright and clear and warm. She wondered for a second what'd shot him full of sunshine and then decided it didn't matter. Some things you didn't question: you simply enjoyed them.

"I'm rarely asked to join in this particular game," Vincent murmured, his voice pitched barely above a whisper, so she had to lean in closer to hear him. He dipped his head, his mouth hovering near her ear. His warm breath ran a shiver up her spine and he unthinkingly pulled her closer.

"It seems my skills as both hider and seeker give me an unfair advantage. I've found I must allow myself to be captured from time to time. And then -"

Vincent broke off. He raised his head, pulling back and giving her one of those looks he specialized in: kind of angled and down the wide, flat bridge of his nose - but not haughty, like it would look on anybody else: more of an affectionate, curious regard. It was, Diana thought, damn sexy. And of course Vincent had absolutely no idea what he could do to her with just that look. It was guileless as hell, and therefore all the more compelling.

"Unless," Vincent continued, with those evaluating eyes still on her. "This is some sort of nefarious scheme on your part and you are, in fact, It."

"Hey, who pulled who into this hole in the rock, buster?"

He went on as if he hadn't heard her. "In which case, that would mean I am now the hunter. And you, Diana … the hunted."

Okay, that whole guileless thing she'd attributed to him? Maybe it was time to rethink that. Because there was no kind of innocence looking back at her from those glittering blue eyes. It caught her off-guard, but in the best kind of way.

"Are you flirting with me, Vincent?"

He looked up and aside. She watched as he worried the inside of a cheek. Then his bottom lip twitched and he peered down at her.

"I believe I am."

She was actually struck dumb for a few beats. His confession was delivered in such a prideful and happy way it shocked her right down to her toes. She bit back a laugh and gave him a playful punch on the arm.

"Well, in that case … go, you!"

Diana didn't get a chance to say any more because Vincent suddenly pressed a finger against her mouth. He gave a shake of his head, silently shushing her. Her eyes followed his to the tunnel beyond and she heard what he'd heard five seconds earlier: kid-sized strides moving cautiously toward them.

The next thing she knew Vincent had thrown his left arm up and over them, the wide sleeve of his cloak opening to drape and conceal them both as he braced his hand on the wall opposite. He dropped his head until it was resting on her shoulder and turned his face toward her.

They stood very still and listened as the footsteps moved closer. Diana was acutely aware of how closely they were pressed against each other and how their breath mingled in the tiny space his cloak had created, and in those moments surviving on the air the other had just finished with. One of her hands lifted of its own accord and tangled in Vincent mane, holding his head against her shoulder while her arm went around his waist, her hand settling on the small of his back.

The footsteps were very close now, almost to the split where they stood hidden. Vincent's head nudged against hers at the same moment the footsteps stopped and Diana's spine snapped straight as his mouth pressed against her throat. Then he opened that mouth wide and gently bracketed the join of her neck and shoulder with his big canines: hardly enough to be anything more than a slight pressure against her skin, but most definitely a sign of absolute possession. Everything about it whispered, _Don't move. Don't try to escape. You're mine now._

It was the most blatantly sexual move he'd ever made on her, and the most insistent: straight-up Alpha male. It occurred to her it was a whole different sort of vigilance he was practicing now. She felt the point of his tongue sample her skin and it took every fiber of her being not to moan out loud. Diana sagged against him as Vincent released his hold and nudged higher, dropping a trail of warm, barely-there kisses up the line of her jaw, stopping just at the edge of her mouth. His breathing was as ragged as hers as they stood frozen but for the nuzzling of cheek against cheek.

Diana felt time grind to a halt, and all awareness of anything that wasn't Vincent fading into the far-off distance. She tried to turn her face into his, to capture the kiss he was keeping from her, but she couldn't budge him. He was too intent on going back the way he'd come: down her jaw line and to her neck.

His head lifted as his hand slid from her waist and up her back. He reached the beginning of her loose braid, just below the nape of her neck, and gathered a fistful of hair. Vincent gave it a gentle tug and her head lolled back on her neck like it'd been broken.

Diana peered up at him with hooded eyes, a languidness borne of desire making her limbs heavy and her heart hammer in her chest. She looked into eyes gone completely dilated to black and knew she was lost. Whatever Vincent wanted to do, it was going to happen. There was nothing she could – or would - do to stop him. She threw herself wide open, within, and offered an invitation to those dark and dangerous eyes.

Vincent's mouth landed on hers: not with a lot of finesse, but certainly with enthusiasm. Somewhere in Diana's fogged up brain she knew this was like no other kiss they'd shared. Not that there had been a whole lot of them to begin with. He'd been afraid of hurting her, of bruising her lips with his strange, fanged mouth. But the kisses had come more often lately, and with less restraint, once they'd discovered her little squirrel mouth fit almost perfectly between his large canines.

And it was as if those gentle, short little kisses had been prelude to this one. Because it packed the combined wallop of all those before it and then some. Diana moaned against his mouth, not giving a damn who might hear her and discover them. Then the tip of Vincent's warm, wet tongue touched hers for the first time and she lost her legs. Everything from her hips south turned to jello. If Vincent's concealing arm hadn't dropped to her waist at that moment, she would've fallen to her knees, and not a damn thing she could've done about it.

Game absolutely over.

The kiss seemed to go on forever, and probably would've had Diana not been overwhelmed by the taste of him - and the desire to end the kiss just long enough so, with the next one, she could discover that taste anew. She wrenched her mouth from his and Vincent whimpered and crushed her against him. She absently thought it would've taken a crowbar to pry them apart, as he had one massive hand splayed between her shoulder blades and his left arm wrapped low around her waist, locking them together from chest to hips. There was no way she could miss Vincent's arousal, not pressed that close.

Diana trapped his face in her hands and pulled him into another kiss, swaying against him as much as his iron-clad embrace would allow. She broke the kiss to gulp in a lungful of air and managed to mutter, "The kids."

"Gone," Vincent growled and sucked her bottom lip into his mouth.

Gone. Yeah … her, too.

Diana figured they had about thirty seconds before they'd spontaneously combust. They would both be consumed in a fire of their own making, nothing left of them but two piles of ashes. Two very close piles, fused into each other, so you couldn't really tell where one ended and the other began. Which ashes would then be collected into proper containers and taken to the Catacombs, where Father would officiate over their funerals and try to explain to the community just exactly what had happened to poor Vincent and Diana.

And if Vincent didn't stop doing that thing with his hands, she was going to go stark raving mad before the flames could have her.

"Stop," she pleaded urgently. "Vincent, stop."

It was like somebody threw a switch. His arms dropped and he pulled back as far as the small space would allow. His shaggy head fell at the same time and Diana flung herself at him as a hot rush of embarrassment and uncertainty overwhelmed the heat of desire. But those negative feelings weren't hers, not in the least way. And she'd be damned if she'd let Vincent think he'd done anything wrong. There was no kind of reason for him to be second-guessing any of it.

"No, no, no," she begged, peppering his face with kisses and clutching at his vest. "It's not like that, Vincent. I don't want you to stop. God, no. Can't you feel that? Just …" She bobbed and weaved, chasing his eyes until he finally consented to let her catch and hold them. "Just maybe somewhere else, you know? With more room. And softer."

His eyes slammed shut and stayed that way for a long time. Finally Vincent released an enormous breath and his arms slowly came back around her. She pressed a kiss against his throat as he swallowed hard.

"Yes … of course. I'm sorry."

She grabbed his face again and came up on her toes, till they were nose to nose. "Don't you dare be sorry. Did that feel like anything to apologize for? Oh, my dear, sweet man, I should be thanking you. And I intend to, just as soon as you get me out of this goddam crack in the rock and into a bed. You hear me?"

Vincent spent an endless time studying her, his eyes moving over her face. Diana gave up any attempt to hunch him out and instead focused all her love and desire for him and gave it to him through the touch of her hands, the contact of her eyes, the weight of her body fitted perfectly against his: solid, warm, and fluidly heated within.

Finally, without a word, he grasped her hand and edged his way out of the small fissure, pulling her along with him. He turned them unerringly toward the Hub.

The whole way to the Long Hall Vincent kept his silence, so she did, too. Just hung onto his hand and concentrated on keeping her legs under her and in step with his. The initial heat they'd created tapered off as they walked, like a fire that'd been banked, but it never really diminished. It still pulsed hotly between them, a simmer being held in check and just at the edge of a boil.

Diana had been thinking _loft_ as destination and figured Vincent had, too. But he surprised her when he came to a stop just as they were about to pass his chamber. He turned to look in and then back at her, as if gauging whether distance or immediacy was the greater of their needs.

Then he wheeled and led them into his chamber, Diana following, still clasping his hand. Vincent left her by the table and knelt in front of a trunk next to his wardrobe. A sweep of his arm cleared books, unlit candles, and a small statue of a centaur from its surface. He raised the lid and dug for a minute before pulling out a folded square of heavy cloth.

It wasn't until he moved back to the doorway and unfolded the length of canvas that Diana noticed the three hooks driven high into the rock above the opening. Vincent slipped the large grommets sewn into the material over the hooks one at a time: left, center, right. And just like that, his chamber had gained a door and an implicit demand for privacy that no one within the community would dare disregard or question.

Then he turned back to her, meeting her impassioned gaze. His eyes were filled with need and what Diana suspected was just a hint of apprehension. But beyond that, far stronger and in answer to her unspoken question, a deep and abiding trust in her and an infinite sense of peace and entitlement.

"Come to me, Diana," Vincent quietly requested, opening his arms in invitation. "Let me love you."

She never could deny him anything he asked of her. And this was no exception.

**...**

"I was expecting to hear from you several days ago. Why the delay, il mio amico?"

"There's nothing new to report, Celina. Things have been quiet since the abbreviated lockdown a couple weeks ago."

"And you're certain that had nothing to do with us?"

"As certain as I can be. It was barely in place before it was rescinded. Word is he was spooked by footprints near a threshold that hadn't been used for years and had no sentry assigned to it. I'm sure it's nothing. Besides, how could he know? He has no reason to suspect anything."

"And you have no reason to be so certain of that. You'd be foolish to underestimate him. Have you forgotten your last encounter?"

There was a long silence from the man on the other end of the phone line. Then: "I haven't forgotten, trust me. You don't forget something like that."

"So you have no news for me?"

"There's nothing happening other than a small party being planned for the kid's birthday. Daddy's been delivering invitations to a select few."

Celina sat up straight. "There's a celebration planned and you didn't think it important enough to tell me? You know what's been set in motion, idiota! When is this taking place?"

"It's not gonna interfere with your plans, Celina. It's a week before the actual date. It'll be over and forgotten by the time you make your move. Relax."

"Listen to me carefully: you don't tell me what to do. You don't tell me anything but what I ask of you. Speak to me that way again and I'll have your tongue cut out. Do we understand each other?"

"Yeah, I understand. Sorry if I was out of line. There's one other thing."

"I'm listening."

"The Bennett woman."

"What about her?"

"She's important to him. Very important. Maybe even more than we thought."

"You think I don't know that, haven't anticipated that very thing? That's the difference between us, you and me. I think in the long-term whereas you … you can't see any further ahead than tomorrow. I didn't need you to tell me that. I've known from the beginning what part she would play in this. It changes nothing."

"That's your call."

"Yes, it is. I want to hear from you regularly, whether you think you have any news to pass on or not. I don't want to have to reach out to you again. I'm paying you for information: I expect to get my money's worth. Are we clear?"

"You got it, Celina. We'll talk again soon."

Celina hung up the phone and looked up at the suited man standing on the other side of her desk. She said, "I'm pushing up our move stateside by two weeks. Make whatever arrangements you need to make that happen. They're planning a celebration for the child's birthday. I want everything to be in place before then. That's when I'll set this game in play."

The older man gave a nod of acknowledgement. "I'll see to it right away."

He turned and headed for the door of the study.

"Oh, one more thing, Pope." The man turned back to her, setting the mouthpiece of his pipe between his thin lips. "As soon as we arrive, I want the informant taken care of. He's served his purpose. It's time for him to receive his just reward."

**...**

Diana lay staring up at the ceiling of her dimly lit bedroom, damn near ready to admit defeat. How the hell was she supposed to get inside the head of a suspect when she had no place to start? Every other case had at least given her a few clues to begin poking at, trying to find her way in and around someone else's life: criminal records, medical records, school records, witness interviews, something.

But no amount of digging had turned up anything on Celina Corbin, other than what she'd learned from Stosh Kazmarek, the one photo she'd found, and stacks of dry, painfully boring articles about business and finance that happened to mention her name. Even Interpol had come up empty-handed, other than offering confirmation that Celina had indeed been born and was listed as still among the living. How you could run a multi-billion dollar business and be that invisible?

They were running out of time. The anniversary of Catherine's death was two weeks away and she and Vincent were no closer to knowing what might happen than when they'd first been approached by Stosh. She was beginning to think they'd have been better off never hearing from him at all; because either way they were stumbling around blind, coming up on the anniversary quickly, and with no least idea of how to plan for whatever Celina might have in store for Vincent.

Her brilliant idea to have him go hug the truth out of tunnel folk and Helpers alike had yielded a big, fat zero. No one had registered any hint of duplicity to his keen senses, and he'd managed to have face-to-face meetings with all but a few. Now Diana wondered if Stosh had been wrong in suspecting Celina had an inside source of information. It was that or Vincent's touch was off and he'd missed something ... or someone. Wouldn't be that big of a stretch to chalk it up to an out of sync empathic gift, considering all he'd had on his mind lately, between the upcoming anniversary and a possible traitor in their midst.

And then there was Diana herself. Being perfectly honest, she had to shoulder some of the blame for Vincent being less than focused on any impending danger – at least lately. She could acknowledge her part in that, but she couldn't be sorry for it. Not when it was still so gloriously new and wonderful. And not when it might be the very thing Vincent needed to deal with the emotional resonances of the anniversary. It wouldn't prevent his pain, but it could make it easier to bear.

"I can almost hear your thoughts."

She startled at the voice coming from beside her and reached over, laying her hand low on Vincent's back. He was sprawled on his stomach next to her, his face turned away.

"Sorry, occupational hazard." Diana's thumb rubbed absently against the edge of his hip. "I thought you were asleep."

"I was." He turned his face, his head pillowed on folded arms. "Until you started thinking. What's troubling you, Diana?"

She rolled onto her side and tucked a section of his heavy mane behind one slightly pointed ear. "It's nothing, babe. Just trying to work my way out of a maze."

A slow blink of his eyes told her he knew she wasn't exactly being forthcoming, but he was willing to let it slide.

"Is there anything I can do to help?"

Diana grinned at him. "You already have." That got her a small smile in return. "You gonna stay?"

Vincent shifted and hitched up on an elbow, looking down at her with sleepy eyes. "Jacob is under Mary's care. Tomorrow is Sunday, so I have no work scheduled." His hand moved under the sheets and slid up her bare leg, calloused palm whispering against her skin. "I told Father I was going away and might not return until tomorrow evening."

"He know you're here?"

Vincent dipped his head and kissed her. "Yes, he knows."

He pulled back and Diana searched his face. He gave her a mild gaze in return.

"And …?" she prompted.

"And I am here. The thing speaks for itself."

Diana knew it wasn't quite that simple, not with Father. But she wasn't going to press him for details. Not when she could lay there and enjoy Vincent's lazy, steady stroking of all her curves and soft places instead.

"Got you all to myself then: all day tomorrow?"

"And all night, tonight," he confirmed. "We mustn't forget that."

She arched against him as he ran claw tips up her spine, sparking nerves and transmitting sensations within her that were not entirely her own.

That was the most unique thing about making love with Vincent, she'd found. Not the unearthly beauty of him, under all those layers of clothes: the perfect symmetry of warrior's body, shape and form, covered almost entirely by a soft pelt of russet-gold. Nor his absolute lack of timidity, which allowed them both the freedom to ask for and receive any touch, any sensation desired.

Nor had she been surprised by his level of ardor, finally unleashed after so many years of torturous suppression. Any woman with half a brain and eyes to see only had to watch him stalk across a room to know an Alpha male when she saw one. Not even the women in the tunnels – the ones he'd grown up with or had known for years – were immune to Vincent's innate charms.

She'd caught the glances in the Commons and at various gatherings Below. It was a wonder no one had gotten their hands on him years ago. Except for his steely determination to deprive himself of physical pleasure, a need pounded into his head by a parent who could reconcile but never fully accept his warrior-scholar son as a man in all the ways that counted, Vincent would likely be married and happily raising several children by now.

Any fears he'd had about hurting her had been overcome that first night - when she'd invited and welcomed the touch of claw tips and nipping bites, his fierce strength instinctively gentled, even as things moved past the point of any kind of thought or control. Diana gave back to him as good as she got, both of them laughing with delight as he'd discovered there was nothing to fear about being with her that way, naked and entirely vulnerable. And then, when they could no longer stand it, the utter completion they'd found when he was finally sheathed deeply inside her and became truly a part of her, one with her. There was nothing at all to fear.

No, it was the deeper levels of sensation she'd been pulled into that first night and was still measuring, still trying to define the limits of, which made sex with him so extraordinary. It was like nothing Diana had ever known. It was a joining like no other: not only feeling what Vincent was doing to her, and with her, but sharing what he felt, as well. What he gave her with those touches and what she sensed him picking up from her.

It was a constant loop of empathic feedback, an endless coil of shared touch and sensation: his and hers; blending, fusing, melting into each other and becoming something brand new and wholly unique. It was sometimes so powerful a thing any caress could become too acute, too magnified, so they would find themselves having to stop and regroup.

"Never," Vincent had murmured that first night, as she'd wiped away his tears and he'd kissed hers gone. "I never imagined … Never dared hope …"

But that was then and this was now. And Vincent was happily revisiting some of his favorite spots on her, with hands and mouth, the sweeping brush of his mane against her bare skin another tactile sensation. His hand grasped her wrist and pinned her arm above her head so he could nuzzle the crook of her elbow. His free hand swept down her torso, his touch light and sure.

On the edge of being tickled, Diana squirmed away as best she could and grabbed a fistful of mane, tugging his face to hers so she could see him.

"My God, you're insatiable. I've created a monster." She went still and mentally replayed what she'd just said, offering him an apologetic, embarrassed look. "Oops, I probably could've put that differently, huh?"

Vincent peered blankly down at her through messy bangs for several beats. And then he grinned, all those big and pointed pearly whites on display and growled, "I'll show you a monster."

Diana shouted in surprise, curling arms and legs around him as Vincent buried his snout in her belly and blew raspberries against her skin. She had no chance in hell of budging him. All she could do was squeal with laughter and ineffectively try to shove him away. But soon his mouth got busy doing other things and Diana's laughter quickly transformed to sighs.

**...**

Vincent woke slowly on the day before his son's planned birthday celebration and thought_, I am fit for no one's company._

Not an auspicious start to the day, certainly, but an honest assessment. He'd been troubled again by angry dreams. Not like the red dreams: filled with slaughter and rage, which had become a rarity since he'd brought Jacob home - but dreams which were disturbing nonetheless. Vincent was aware he'd been swinging a wide pendulum of moods these last few days: from inexplicable joy to crushing sadness. There seemed no sense in them, though Vincent knew their cause.

In the middle ground, between the two extremes, was the anger: that was what stayed with him. It colored everything now. It confused him, distracted him, made him feel as if some mischievous wraith followed him through the tunnels, through his days and nights, poking at him unexpectedly and for no reason other than to provoke his hostility. But against whom or what, Vincent didn't know. And that made it all the worse. There was no proper target for his anger. Therefore anyone could become a target.

He'd handed Jacob over to Brooke the evening before with the terse, mostly nonsensical excuse of having matters that would require his complete attention for at least a day or two, at least until the birthday celebration. He'd stalked away and soon found himself in the park, at the carousel. Memories of Devin and of his sudden disappearance from Vincent's life had caught him up for an unregarded time. And then he'd found himself on the roof of Catherine's apartment building, with no memory of having traveled there.

He'd climbed down to the building's outcropping where he'd stood countless times before, in those few moments prior to taking a last leap and landing silently on her terrace. But he hadn't made the jump, not last night: he'd merely stood there frozen for another extended time and then had come back to himself and had slowly climbed again to the rooftop and then down, bitter and sad.

And then to Diana's, where he'd found himself in stasis yet again, unable to move, standing before her covered bank of windows, incapable of gathering thoughts cohesively enough to decide what it was he was doing there, why he'd come. He'd lowered inner barriers just enough to gain a sense of her and then had shut himself off again. But she had known, had sensed him in those moments. He'd felt her startlement and had been gone before she'd made it halfway up the stairs to meet him.

Whatever Diana had sensed, she'd not come looking for him. He'd gone back Below and had spent the remainder of the evening alone, in the Whispering Gallery, attending to the darkness of the Abyss. It had not called to him, as he'd thought it might. It served only as witness to a sudden grief that'd brought him to his knees, weeping silently and raging against the cold facts of opportunities lost to him. He'd collapsed fully dressed on his bed some time later and fallen into a deep and immediate sleep, followed then by the dreams.

Now bathed and dressed for the day, Vincent found his feet leading him to the study, though that destination had been decided without conscious thought. There was only the unexamined need to see Father and the knowledge of where to find him.

He stopped just at the rear entrance of the study, not willing to interrupt a literature class of some of the older children gathered there. They were reading from _Julius Caesar_ and Vincent found himself mouthing the words along with Zach, as the boy read them aloud:

_For Brutus, as you know, was Caesar's angel.  
>Judge, O you gods, how dearly Caesar lov'd him!<br>This was the most unkindest cut of all;  
>For when the noble Caesar saw him stab,<br>Ingratitude, more strong than traitors' arms,  
>Quite vanquish'd him: then burst his mighty<br>heart. . . ._

The words were bitter on Vincent's tongue and he found himself moving again, his previous wish not to intrude forgotten as he heedlessly barged into the recitation with an apology already leaving his mouth.

"Forgive me the disruption."

All the faces gathered there turned to him as he searched and located Father among the students, at his desk. He held the other man's eye and gave him an urgent, pleading look, aware of his features twisting as he did. "Father …"

He received a measured study in return and then Father abruptly ended the class and quickly shooed the children from the chamber. Vincent saw the furtive glances he was given as they trailed up the steps and away, but couldn't find it in himself to offer any reassurances.

"What is it, Vincent? What's wrong?" Father was rising from his chair and Vincent waved him back into it, crossing the study and beginning to pace before the desk, hands folded in front of him. He could feel Father's concerned attention and it only seemed to make his agitation worse.

Vincent halted and faced the older man.

"I need … There are things I need to tell you."

"Of course. Come, sit down, Vincent." Father's tone was solicitous. "Have you eaten yet? I could signal William to bring something up."

He shook his head in negation of both offers and stayed on his feet. "No, no, thank you. No food."

"I can see you're upset. What is it?"

The question set him in motion again, moving to the spiral staircase in the center of the chamber. He grasped cold iron in one hand and swung back around toward the desk.

"Father, something … something has been changing. Slowly. Over the months. Something that began when Catherine was taken. Or perhaps even before. Since … what happened in the cave."

Vincent risked a glance at Father and their eyes locked for several seconds. He could see the concern there but couldn't pay it any heed. The anger was too large and now had found its target. He had no fear for Father's safety, for this was not an issue of violence threatening to erupt, only a burning need to express things he'd thought better left unsaid between them. The anger had festered too long and needed to be given voice.

"I've not spoken to you of this before now because I didn't understand it myself," Vincent went on, his attention drifting away to someplace less troubling than the worry he found in Father's eyes. "I'm not certain I do now. I'm … changing, Father. And these changes have been so gradual they've gone almost unnoticed, even by me, and are recognized only when I allow myself to give thought to them. It's a meshing … an integration."

"Of what sort, Vincent?"

"Of what I am … and who I am. And of that which I believed was Other within me." He wheeled away from the staircase and circled the table. "Always it has been a struggle to maintain a balance, a distance. What I thought was a necessary separation of two opposing natures. But that distance has been lost, the balance tipped. So much of what he is now is a part of me. And so very little is left of that which I caged …"

He trailed off, brow furrowing, knowing he was making no sense, but the proper words wouldn't seem to come. He clenched his fists in frustration.

Father was saying, alarm in his voice, "Have you begun experiencing the same symptoms as before? Is that what this is about, Vincent, is it happening to you again?"

He could plainly hear the fear in Father's voice - could feel it, as well.

"No, no, it's not like that. It's not the Other, if ever it truly was; as if it were ever something separate and apart from me." He finally gave up his pacing and sat heavily in the chair closest to Father's desk. He studied his hands and forced himself to take a deep breath, releasing it slowly before he looked back up. Father was studying him with deep unease.

"I asked you once if I was a man. Do you remember?"

"Yes, yes, of course I remember, Vincent. But what –"

"You told me then that part of me was. But that's not true. So much of what you've told me, for as long as I can remember … not true." He threw a severe look at Father and was met with puzzlement and watchful regard.

"Pardon me, Vincent, but I can't help feeling as if I'm being accused of something. What exactly are you saying?"

"I'm not accusing you of anything, Father … except perhaps ignorance." That got him a cocked eyebrow and a stern look. Vincent ignored it and went on, having suddenly found the words and needing to get them out with all haste.

"I'll concede that ignorance was the result of having come face-to-face with the reality of raising a child you believed as being like no other, as so very different from everyone else. I know that. I know you made the choices you made, taught me the things you did, instilled in me the beliefs you have, because you thought them necessary to my survival - and of those I live among. But I fear, Father, you've been wrong. We both have.

"It is not _part_ of me that is a man, it is all of me. With the same needs and desires as any man: to love and be loved, and to protect and keep safe those loved ones. That I look as I do, am possessed of empathic abilities; that I am armed as I am, with weapons of strength, of fangs and clawed hands, is a difference only of degree, not of kind. That I am able to dispatch the enemies of my loved ones in such a way as I do does not make me less of a man, only more efficient than most. The rage, Father, the rage is the same. I have felt it in others not like me. Felt it in those who inhabit these tunnels, and on the streets and in the buildings of the world Above. And the feelings of love ...

"The love is the same, as well. These hands … These hands have held my son countless times, gently and with no injury to him." Vincent lifted and displayed them as he caught and held Father's eye before continuing, almost daring him to dispute the truth of the words that followed.

"They have given pleasure to the woman I love, with the deepest and most intimate of touches, and without harm to her."

Father met his unspoken challenge for several seconds before conceding the fact and glancing aside. Vincent continued: "They have done honorable work, helped to build and maintain our world, even if sometimes the price of keeping that world safe has involved spilling the blood of other men. But nothing … _nothing_ I have done has been outside the scope of human behavior. In that respect, I am more the same than different. I am a man, Father, in all the ways that matter."

Vincent fell silent and attended to Father, watching varied expressions cross his face and reflect in his eyes. Now, being still, Vincent was able to feel the collision of emotions within him, as well. There was a long silence, broken only by the soft clanging of the pipes and a subway passing overhead.

After a while Father removed his glasses and made a ritual of cleaning them, asking as he did, "And to what conclusion has that knowledge brought you, Vincent? I cannot argue most of the points you've raised. Just as I can't deny these changes you speak of, for I have taken note of them myself, as has most everyone in this community. And I can only apologize for what you seem to think was a lack of compassion or skill on my part, in raising you in a proper manner - despite what you've acknowledged was a certain and understandable ignorance of the challenges I faced."

Father, peering through the lenses and apparently satisfied by their cleanliness, slipped them back on and looked over the tops at Vincent.

"This very subject is one we've not often broached, you and I. And when we do, it has been only obliquely. We are both at fault for that, for allowing ourselves to let fear of wounding one another prevent us from saying things that should've been said. I understand your frustrations, Vincent. What I don't understand is your very obvious anger. While I am indisputably the target of it, I do not believe I am its source. Can you tell me what is? "

Vincent frowned, taken aback by what he realized was Father's very astute observation. He'd thought he'd known the source, hence his need to force this conversation, but he'd been wrong. He hadn't truly examined the anger, and why it had been burning so darkly within him. Not until this very moment, when it came to him in a blinding glare of comprehension and painful clarity.

For some reason, the knowing made him even angrier. Vincent sprung from the chair and pivoted, coming to a stop having braced locked arms on the desk before him, leaning toward Father in an imposing stance.

He snarled roughly and louder than was necessary, "I could have given her everything, Father! I could have given Catherine the life she wanted for us, which I continually denied her for fear of what harm I might cause. We could have had it all! And now it is lost to me: the possibilities, the dreams. All lost."

Father studied him for several seconds and then quietly asked, "Do you really think that's so, that you could have had that life with Catherine?"

"Of course!" Vincent shoved away from the desk, and setting his hands on his hips, voiced in challenge, "Do you believe me wrong?"

"What I believe, Vincent, what I have come to understand over the years, is that things come to us in their own time. Not when we might want them, but only when we have achieved the wisdom and the grace necessary to recognize and honor them as the gifts they are.

"I loved Catherine like a daughter. You know that to be true. But she was not without her faults – none of us are. And the most glaring one, what gave me the greatest concern, was her inability to face the brutal facts of what a life with you would entail."

"What do you mean, Father? What are you saying?"

"Simply that what we think we want is not always what is in our best interest - or what we most need. The two are not always the same. Catherine loved what was most gentle within you, the best part of who you are. But she often denied the rest, what didn't fit within her idea of what it is to be human; almost until the end, and even as she witnessed it in your defense of her, time and again: the rage you speak of, the Other - that which you so fought against, until it almost cost you your life."

He couldn't deny the truth of Father's words. Vincent had always known, with Catherine, what parts of himself he needed to keep hidden from her in order for her to feel fully safe in his presence. She'd been only too willing to ignore the fact of his killing rages, even when confronted and witness to them, even being their catalyst; been too willing, as well, to excuse them as necessary, when all facts flew in the face of that need. She had accepted the Other within Vincent, but had refused to fully acknowledge him; not until the end, when it surely would have killed him, had she not come to him then.

Still … Vincent shook his head, confused and sullen, struggling to understand the point Father was trying to make.

"I don't know what might have happened, had Catherine not been taken from you; what affect these changes you speak of may have had on your relationship with her," Father went on. "Truth be told, I'm not sure any of this would be happening to you _at all_, had she lived. We can't know that with any certainty, can we? But I would ask you this, Vincent: how many of these changes are a result of Diana coming into your life?"

"If you mean to lay any sort of culpability on her -" Vincent warned, spinning to fully face him.

"No, no, you misunderstand me. There is no blame to be placed, is there? These changes you speak of can only be seen in a positive light, I think. Wouldn't you agree?"

Vincent lifted his hands and shrugged in distracted agreement, asking, "Then, what?"

"This … new perspective you've gained … have you spoken to Diana about this, shared your thoughts with her?"

"Yes, of course, on several occasions," Vincent answered dismissively. "There is no longer a need to keep anything secreted from Diana. She knows all there is to know."

"And would you have felt such a freedom with Catherine, to discuss these same things, had it been she by your side this past year?"

"I …" Vincent hesitated and then answered honestly, haltingly, "I don't know. I'm not sure."

"Catherine gave you a dream, Vincent, a wonderful dream. No, wait, please hear me out. She gave you a dream, but Diana … she has given you the opportunity to seize on a reality. A relationship, a life perhaps, where there is no room to hide, no acceptance of anything less than all that you are, and all that she is. You told me yourself, not long ago, that Diana is your mirror. A mirror, Vincent, tells no lies, offers no disguises. It reflects truth, no matter how flawed that might be ... sees it and accepts it. Look into your heart and ask yourself: are you the same man you were when Catherine was alive? Could you have been the man with her that you are now with Diana?"

Vincent took a step back and dropped gracelessly into the chair he'd occupied earlier. He gazed at the other man with sudden perception. The answer to Father's question was, of course, a resounding no. And Vincent now saw why that was. It was a simple as the difference between reality and a dream.

If Vincent had learned nothing else over the past year and a half, he'd learned that dreams rarely lasted. Which was why each night's sleep brought them anew. Ephemeral, gossamer, they weren't meant to be grasped and kept hold of for long. But reality …

Reality was wide sea-foam eyes sparking with intelligence and humor, and red waves of silken tresses spread out on a white bed sheet beneath him; it was pale, freckled skin that flushed rose under his touch and a raspberry mouth as prone to foul language as wide grins; it was comfort and sanctuary and love.

Father could always be relied upon to help him see things more clearly, even filtered through the veil of his fury - just as Diana had been able to do, and from the beginning. He felt the last traces of anger fading, replaced by the certainly he'd just broken through another, different, sort of barrier, one he hadn't even known was there until it was gone. Vincent gazed at Father with new appreciation and drew an open palm down his face, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

"You're giving us your blessing," he realized and voiced, "because you love Diana, too. As you did Catherine."

Father brusquely waved off Vincent's pleased epiphany. "Of course I do. I believe Diana feels a certain affection toward me as well, though we have, by silent agreement, decided never to speak of it or even acknowledge it to each other. That is our way, Diana's and mine."

Vincent chuffed a startled chuckle and glanced over to find Father smiling at him, looking rather pleased with himself. Then his features settled and he gave Vincent a more serious look.

"The anger you're feeling now is a part of your grief, Vincent, a part that perhaps you haven't allowed yourself to truly feel until now. When we lose someone we love, much of the pain comes from the lost possibilities, from what could've been. It's normal to feel what you're feeling. But don't allow that anger, that aspect of your grief, to blind you to what you have now … and to what your future holds."

Vincent felt a surge of love and leaned forward to place his hand over Father's, giving it a gentle squeeze. "You're a wise man, and you're right - much as it sometimes pains me to admit."

That forced a chuckle from across the desk.

"Was there ever any doubt?" Father asked, putting the matter to bed by grabbing a pile of papers next to him, turning and tapping them just so against the surface of the desk, determined to make a neater stack of them.

Vincent leaned back and folded his hands in his lap. He expelled a sigh and said, "Turning to other subjects, though not more pleasant things … I wish I could be as sure of what my future holds as you. I fear it may be more uncertain than any of us know."

"You still believe this Corbin woman might be a threat?"

"I cannot discount the possibility. Diana and Stosh both believe it to be true."

"Has Diana been able to find out any more?"

"No, only … shadows. A photograph, some addresses - nothing of substance. I'm maintaining the extra security around the perimeter, at least until after the anniversary."

"Good," Father nodded. "And you, Vincent, you must take great care this next week. Be aware of everything, within and without. If this woman means you harm …"

"I know, Father. I'm uncomfortable with my lack of control over any of this: the affects of this fresh grief … and the threat. From which direction either might come, I cannot foresee. My thoughts are not as clear as I would have them be, my senses are dulled. I cannot seem to stay on any task for long. And I am poor company."

Father pursed his lips and gave a nod of his head. "I would have to say that's a fair assessment. Which is why you must be doubly careful you don't -" He broke off when Vincent raised his hand for quiet.

As with all who lived in the tunnels for any length of time, an ear was always tuned to the messages being sent through the pipes, even if that attention was a subconscious one: Vincent had just heard a familiar name come over the pipes.

"Diana is Below," Vincent said, rising from the chair and heading for the landing.

"Were you expecting her?"

"No." Vincent started up the steps and paused, turning back to Father. "I'm going to meet her. Shall we continue this conversation later?"

"Yes, of course. Go on. I believe I have a reading group to reassemble, if they've not all found something more entertaining to do than stumble their way through Shakespeare."

Vincent stopped and looked back over his shoulder, commenting affectionately, "Your patience serves you well, Father."

"Ah … indeed. Go on with you, then."

**...**

Diana felt him long before she laid eyes on him - something that had been happening more often, ever since they'd gotten horizontal. And vertical. Maybe even diagonal, a couple times, if she was remembering right.

She hadn't figured out yet if it was a result of something on her end of things or Vincent's. Was she just more in tune with him now, and that allowed her to sense him more easily and at greater distances? Or was it that Vincent had let go of some of that fierce inner control he'd always held to so tightly? Maybe it was both.

No matter the cause, she had no difficulty picking up on his present mood. If it'd had a flavor, she'd have tagged it as bittersweet. She took the last turn before hitting the Long Hall and there he was: her solemn, golden angel, bathed in sepia tones of candlelight reflected off stone.

"Hey, babe." She strolled right up to him and wrapped her arms around his neck, hanging on tight.

"Diana," he murmured into her hair and squeezed her back just as hard. He felt good; it'd been two days since she'd seen him and the longest they'd been apart in weeks.

She finally let loose and backed up a step. "Listen, I got a deposition later on, but there's something I wanted to run past you before I head uptown. You think William's still got coffee going? I need a shot of caffeine: it's already been a long day."

Vincent offered her a hand. "Let's find out."

The Commons was cleared out from breakfast except for a few worker bees and a half-dozen teenagers, boys and girls, sitting close at the end of one of the long tables, heads bent together in a rough circle. Diana recognized Zach and Cynthia and caught the tail-end of a girlish giggle before the group spotted them. Almost as one, animated faces fell and grins faded, contrite expressions replacing them. As she and Vincent passed by the table they occupied, he swung his head toward the kids and uttered a single word:

"Classes."

Diana looked back over her shoulder, grinning, as they slunk out of the Commons en masse. She let go of Vincent's hand and slipped her arm through his. "That's a pretty good trick, right there. Have you always been that intimidating or did you have to work at it?"

Vincent gave her a pointed look that quickly softened when met with her teasing smile. He reached to pat the hand she had laying on his arm and oh-so-politely informed her, "It's not intimidation, it is respect."

"Now who's arguing semantics?"

He chuckled, handed her onto a bench and disappeared into the kitchen to fetch coffee. He came back with two mugs, one long, furred finger hooked through both handles, and a cloth napkin containing an enormous muffin. Vincent set the spoils of his hunt on the table and swung one leg over the bench, straddling it and facing her.

"Phyllis insisted I bring you this when I told her you were here. She's worried you don't eat enough."

She took a sip of the strong, hot coffee and reached for the muffin, pulling it apart and handing half of it to Vincent. The sweet smell of baked apples and spice made her mouth water. Before attacking her half with gusto, Diana retorted, "She's never seen me tuck into a plate of spaghetti."

Vincent made a noise of agreement. "Indeed. It's a sight I'll not soon forget."

It would've been impolite to stick her tongue out around a mouthful of food, so she shot him a look instead. He attempted to cover a smile by plucking off a chunk of muffin and popping it in his mouth.

They chewed and sipped quietly for awhile, one of Vincent's knees touching hers, the other pressed against her backside, bracketing her with his long legs. And Diana gradually became aware of something resonating between them: a reconnecting on what felt, to her, like a cellular level. Something that'd begun without thought but almost with inevitability; something powerful and beyond their control, like being swept up in a warm, all-encompassing wave of connectedness. It felt like that to her, anyway, that deep. Like another kind of love-making. She distractedly wiped her fingers clean of crumbs and looked over at Vincent. He had his mug halfway to his mouth and a far-off, slightly dazed look in his eyes.

As Diana was dimly wondering if her expression matched, his eyes cleared and locked onto hers, tender and bottomless, as though he were just now seeing her after an eternity apart. They held the look for a long breath as the serenely sweet feeling faded away, like it had done its work and was finished with them. But it had definitely been a shared thing: unspoken but acknowledged, with that single look.

Diana tried to shake off the remnants of the rapport and took another sip of coffee. She felt languid and boneless. And wondered, for what must have been the hundredth time, if this thing she and Vincent had going on would ever stop surprising her.

"So," she asked quietly, after another minute or two had passed and the sleepy fog had mostly cleared out of her brain, "what was that, last night?"

Vincent set his mug aside and dipped his head. "A temporary lapse of good judgment. A bout of self-pity." He looked up at her. "I didn't mean to disturb you. I'm sorry."

Diana folded a leg and swiveled on the bench so she could face him. She braced her hands on his thighs and leaned in. "Sorry for what, being human? For having a bad night? It's okay to feel that, Vincent. I just wish you'd stuck around. Maybe I could've helped."

He shook his head. "It would have been an imposition. I'm not very good company right now. Even Father agrees with me on that."

"I'll take my chances. Haven't kicked you to the curb yet, have I?"

Vincent lifted a hand and cupped her cheek. She captured it and turned her face into it, dropping a kiss on his palm.

"I have been most fortunate in you, Diana. I fear I don't tell you that often enough."

She felt the sudden sting of tears and glanced aside. "S'okay, I'm not real big on words anyway." She determinedly met his eyes. "And what you said? It goes both ways."

Okay, so it wasn't _I love you_. But still … it was for them.

"So … before I embarrass both of us by turning into sniveling, blotchy lump, let me tell you why I'm here." Diana reached for the tote she'd deposited on the table and dug for the brown NYPD case file. "This may be nothing, completely random and coincidental," she warned, "but my huncher says otherwise."

She set the folder on the table and laid her hand on top of it. "It's a homicide, called in yesterday afternoon by some homeless guy rooting around in a basement looking for God knows what, maybe a place to curl up and enjoy his Ripple in peace. Probably wouldn't have registered on my radar if it hadn't been for a couple things, including the location. I went to the crime scene dark and early this morning, just to be sure. Vincent, this guy was found right outside - I mean, no more than six feet - from the Canal Street threshold."

Diana had spent enough time reading over the sentry schedules and rotation list of entrances opened or closed posted monthly in the Commons to know that particular threshold was rarely used anymore. In fact, a heavy steel door had been installed there some months back, eliminating the need to even have a sentry posted in the passageway the hidden entrance opened onto. She ventured a look at Vincent and found his attention divided between her and the file under her hand.

"Guy took a single bullet to the back of the head, high caliber, probably a .45 but forensics isn't back yet. Execution style: no muss, no fuss. The name Mitch Denton mean anything to you?"

Diana might as well have delivered a hard jab to his ribs, the way Vincent jerked. His eyes went wide and she knew she'd hit a bull's-eye. Of what kind remained to be seen.

"Yeah?" she asked. "You know this guy? Got a rap sheet as long as my arm. Got out of federal lock up a few years ago after doing a nickel of hard time. You _know_ this guy?"

Diana was having trouble wrapping her brain around the possibility of Vincent knowing Denton well enough to cause the kind of reaction she was seeing. Ex-hookers, junkies, orphans, yeah, that was no stretch. Anybody decent who'd fallen on hard times and needed a hand up, Vincent would be the first one there. But this Denton dude had been bad news.

Unlikely or not, her huncher hadn't steered her wrong. She watched and waited while Vincent tried to recover from the bomb she'd just dropped on him. He was tightly closed off, rigid, and she started to reach out and touch him but changed her mind, pulling her hand back and gnawing on the edge of her thumb instead.

Finally Vincent let himself look at her and quietly admitted," Mitch and I were boys together."

Diana's jaw dropped. "He grew up in _tunnels_?" Her eyes felt cartoon wide and round, like she'd soon have to scoop them off her cheeks and back into their sockets.

Vincent was slowly nodding. "We were … friends … once."

Her hands flew up, sketching a sharp gesture, asking for more. And so he gave it: what she recognized was, even for Vincent, a highly abbreviated tale of a sick Helper's son, the offer of a home for that child in a close and loving community and, ultimately, a betrayal of that love and trust. And the further piece of news that Mitch Denton had shot Catherine in the back and very nearly killed her.

Diana had remembered a case of Cathy's involving dockworkers, the union, and a little slice of organized crime. That's what'd initially gotten her interested in the murder, because of Denton's name and where he'd been found. And because three of his goons had ended up messily dead in a warehouse on the docks while Cathy had been investigating that case and then gotten shot for it. But the man who'd pulled the trigger hadn't been identified by Cathy, or ever apprehended. And now Diana knew why.

"Wait a minute," she stopped Vincent just as he was about to say more and leaned in close. Her voice was a rough whisper. "You mean to tell me you took out Denton's henchmen and then just turned around and left him there – let him walk out of there alive? After he shot Cathy?"

Vincent pierced her with a level gaze. "I would have killed him had I not, at that very moment, sensed Catherine coming awake and known she was alive and would be well. He deserved a death."

That last said without an ounce of shame or doubt. And there wasn't a whole hell of a lot she could say to rebuke him - or would've, had she even had a fair argument. They'd both taken justice into their own hands, and more than once.

Vincent had guiltily confessed to her a few months back, _"I've poisoned you with my darkness."_ What he didn't know then, what she thought he still had trouble processing now, was that she'd been carrying around her own brand of darkness for many years before he'd come along. Maybe it didn't manifest itself the same way Vincent's did, but darkness was darkness and Diana knew everyone carried some of it around, whether they'd cop to it or not.

"So you ended up just scaring the crap out of him and he basically walked away scot free, is that what you're saying?"

"That's what I'm saying."

She heaved a sigh and dug back into her tote, pulling out a clear plastic evidence bag and handing it to him. "I think that's one you're gonna regret. Because I'm pretty sure your act of mercy's come back to bite you on the ass."

Vincent studied the contents of the bag and then looked up at her.

"What is this, Diana?"

"It's a business card they found in Denton's wallet. See the address? That's the same as one Stosh gave me: the high-rise in the financial district. And the name on the card, Wolfram and Hart? That's the building's newest tenant. And one of the few subsidiaries Stosh and his guys were able to trace back to the Corbin family. Now, why would Denton be where he was and happen to be carrying around that card in his wallet unless –?"

"Unless he was the traitor Stosh warned us about," Vincent finished, handing the bag back to her. "And was working for Celina."

"Bingo."

"Diana, Mitch was … an enforcer, for what Catherine believed was a branch of organized crime."

"Which we know Gabriel was into up to his eyeballs. Lots of families there, trust me, and lots of rivalries, but everybody has fingers in everybody else's pies anyway – backstabbing and doing personal deals, what not. One very large, wide-spread, and incestuous family. For all we know, Denton was working for Gabriel, or one of his various minions, long before Cathy got pulled into this shit - and you and Jacob, by extension. Who the hell knows: maybe Celina inherited Denton's services after I took out Gabriel. Maybe they got to talking about what'd happened to her dear uncle and Mitch put two and two together and couldn't keep his mouth shut."

Vincent's hands were gripping his knees tightly enough the tendons clearly shown through the dense fur. She reached and covered them with her own. "I'm sorry, babe. I know this has gotta be rough on top of everything else that's going on right now."

"No, this is good." He turned his hands under hers and lightly held them. "At least now we know."

What she was able to pick up from him told her it was anything but good. She had a fleeting moment that felt like spinning, and a sense of tension brittle enough to shatter very easily into something that had no interest whatsoever in being controlled or tamed.

Diana gave him a minute, hoping he could at least find some small shelter in the more even keel of her emotions. Sure, this mattered to her too, was important to her, but she didn't have the memories to deal with that Vincent had. And he felt everything so deeply.

After a long while she said to him, "I hate to do this to you, but I have to ask. If Denton was managing to sneak into the upper tunnels and gather info, say from the pipes, would that account for everything Stosh told us Celina knows?"

That got her a razor-edged look. And then a clenched, "No."

"Okay, then we gotta figure this out. Anything Denton knew that went beyond first-hand knowledge - which according to you would be old news, since he was exiled and hadn't been Below in years - then he had to have had somebody feeding him information, too. Stuff that only a Helper or member of the community would know, right? Recent stuff, gossip, that sort of thing. But who? Why?"

She gave Vincent a quick look. He was studying the dirt floor at their feet, his eyes darting here and there as he contemplated what she was getting at, and thinking hard about it. Diana hooked a thumb under his chin and tilted his face level with hers. "Who was Mitch closest to when he lived Below? Who did he confide in? Who might be soft-hearted enough to forgive everything he did and stay in touch with him over the years, and think nothing of sharing with him what was going on down here?"

Vincent shook his head, breaking her hold on his chin. "No one, Diana. Mitch was dead to us; the community no longer recognized him, no longer knew him."

"No one? You positive?" Her brow raised in doubt. There had to be at least one sap amongst the community or their helpers who'd found a way to overlook Denton's criminal, murderous tendencies. There was always one in every crowd.

And that's when Vincent's eyes snapped shut in realization.

"Who?" Diana demanded.

His chest lifted and fell as he pushed out an audible sigh.

"Molly. She grew up Below and was part of our circle of friends. Before Mitch left … toward the end … he and Molly grew closer."

"Boyfriend and girlfriend type of close?"

"We were but children, Diana. Mitch was only fifteen when he left the tunnels."

Diana decided it was not the time to remind Vincent of all the fourteen and fifteen year old girls roaming the streets Above, ripely pregnant. Things weren't the same Below: it was a different world.

"Molly still down here?" she asked.

"No, she moved Above several years ago. But she remains a Helper."

"Is she Below much?"

Another deep sigh. "Yes … often."

"I gotta talk to her. You know that, right?"

"Yes."

Vincent wouldn't look at her. He didn't seem to be looking at much of anything, at least not anything in the Commons. Maybe he was seeing days gone by and trying to reconcile memories of innocent friendship with the hard realities she'd just presented him.

"You want to be there when I do, babe?" she gently offered.

"I … I'm not sure. I'll have to think about it."

"That's fine. I'm not gonna be able to get out from under the work until tonight anyway. You think about it and I'll see what else I can dig up - if I can scrape together a few minutes here and there. I'll head back down here as soon as I can." Diana shoved the case file and evidence bag back into her tote and swallowed down the last of her coffee.

"I'm going to need Molly's address, too, if you decide not to come with me. You got that handy?" Vincent gave her an infinitesimal nod and she impulsively draped her arms around his neck, leaning in and giving him an awkward hug. She pulled back and rested her forehead against his.

"Diana, why was Mitch killed now?"

She shut her eyes against the frightened little-boy tone in his voice: like he'd just found out someone he loved had shoved the biggest, baddest boogey-man in the world under his bed for no reason other than to be heartlessly cruel. But Vincent wasn't a little boy. And what Denton's death meant was a whole lot more dangerous than a boogey-man.

"I think we both know the answer to that. I'd say Celina got everything she needed from him and now she's tying up loose ends."

"Then Molly could be in danger, as well. I should send someone to check on her."

Diana pulled away and waited for Vincent to make up his mind to come fully back to the here and now. He finally deigned to meet her patient gaze and she said, "Just make sure she doesn't think it's anything more than a social call, whoever you send. I don't want to tip her off to anything. I want to catch her fresh."

"I understand. I'll see to it." There was a medium silence. "Diana … Jacob's birthday celebration. It's tomorrow evening."

She knew what he was asking her. "That's your call, babe. Postpone it, if it doesn't feel right. Down here is your jurisdiction, not mine. I'll back you up, whatever you do."

"I should speak to Father," he decided, rising from the bench. "Perhaps even gather the council for a meeting. We should discuss this latest piece of news."

"Yeah, that's probably a good idea." Diana swung her other leg over and shoved off the bench, slinging her tote onto her shoulder and falling into step beside Vincent as they headed toward the open double doors leading out into the Long Hall.

**...**

Molly Braedon was a tiny thing, no more than five feet tall and skinny as a whip. She reminded Diana of an elf or a fairy, a sprite, something like that. She was attractive in a pixyish sort of way, with a curly cap of short blonde hair and large, inquisitive brown eyes that'd darted between her and Vincent as he'd introduced them.

They'd entered Molly's third floor apartment from a window in the bedroom that let out onto the fire escape. Making the climb up there, following Vincent on the ladders and iron decks, it'd struck Diana that he probably had little occasion to go knocking on someone's door to be let in. He was forced to stay in the safety of darkness, in the alleys and back streets of the city he so loved but could never really be a part of. The thought made Diana sad.

Molly, despite living Above for the past several years, maintained an air of tunnel-ness about her Diana caught right off the bat. Not just in her speech patterns and the relaxed economy of her movements, but in her very aspect. Like some of the magic that made Below possible, that you'd grown up with, was something you absorbed into your skin over the years and that became part of you - and nothing you could ever shake.

"It's nice to finally meet you, Diana. I wasn't able to attend Winterfest this year or we would have met sooner. But I've heard a lot about you: all good." Molly smiled and suddenly looked ten years younger.

"So I get two visits in one day, do I? First Jamie and now you two," Molly went on as she offered them a seat on her cramped loveseat in the tiny living room of her even tinier apartment. As Diana looked around she noticed everything seemed to be scaled down to something befitting a child. Which made sense in light of Molly's size. But it still struck Diana as bizarrely funny.

_I'm in Munchkin Land_, she thought. And then had to viciously shove down the laughter threatening to explode as she took in Vincent perched on his side of the loveseat, long arms and legs folded tight but still sticking out in sharp angles, and looking even more massive than usual.

_I'm damn near giddy with exhaustion_, she realized. _It's_ _been a very long day._

Vincent took that moment to lay his hand on top of hers where it was balanced on her knee. She absorbed a direct shot of absolute focus from him and almost immediately felt sharper, more alert. She amended her earlier thought, realizing a lot of the magic she credited to the tunnels was actually contained within the man sitting beside her.

"Molly, we're sorry to disturb you so late in the evening," Vincent was saying. "But Diana has some things she needs to ask you."

"Sure," Molly answered, still on her feet, arms folded and dividing her attention between the two of them. "What is it?"

Diana sat up and braced elbows on knees, lacing her fingers together. "I don't know if you know this or not, but I'm a detective with the NYPD. I need to talk to you about Mitch Denton."

Molly reached behind her, feeling for the arm of a chair and slowly sinking into it. Her face settled into carefully neutral features and her eyes lingered on Vincent as she asked, "Mitch? What is it you want to know?"

"Molly -" Vincent began, and this time it was Diana reaching to touch him. She laid her hand on his arm to silence him: this was her turf. Vincent might know Molly as an old friend, but to Diana she was nothing more than a witness.

"Molly, I know you've been seeing him off and on for years." Diana quickly took a second stab in the dark: "I know you're lovers."

Vincent tensed up beside her, throwing her a look she ignored: she was too busy watching Molly's eyes grow even bigger around, like a deer caught in the headlights. _Score two for the detective_, she thought.

"I'm not here to pass judgment," Diana continued. "Who you sleep with is your business. But I need to know how much you've been telling Mitch about what's going on Below. You know, pillow talk, that sort of thing."

The woman didn't seem to be paying her the least bit of attention. She was too involved in a silent conversation with Vincent, their eyes locked tight. Diana couldn't see his well enough from the angle she had, but Molly's eyes were pleading.

"Vincent, you don't understand," she eventually said after a long, awkward silence. "You don't know him like I do. He's done a lot of bad things, I won't deny that, but deep down he has a good heart. He means well. Please, you have to understand. I love him. I've loved him since we were kids."

Vincent responded by taking to his feet and walking to one of the windows bracketing the loveseat, giving Molly his back. Diana took note of his clenched fists and turned to the woman in front of her.

"I need to know what you've told him, Molly, especially anything since Vincent brought Jacob home. And I need to know if you know who Mitch's been working for. Anything you can tell me."

Molly slowly dragged her eyes from Vincent's back and focused on Diana, swallowing hard and nodding, like she'd given herself permission to talk.

"I don't … I don't _not_ tell him anything. I mean, I don't keep anything from him. Mitch grew up down there, you know? And he's always curious about what's going on. Can you blame him? The tunnels, they were his home for eight years. We were all friends back then."

That last part was directed at Vincent, who still hadn't turned from the window. But Diana saw his shoulders sag. "I understand, I do" Diana told her. "So what else can you tell me?"

"I don't know who he's working for now. Some kind of consulting firm, I think. I'm not sure: he doesn't ever really want to talk about it and I don't push him. Mitch … well, he has kind of a temper."

There was another, more furtive, glance at Vincent.

Diana raised her eyes to the ceiling, sighing. She was fairly certain, had she'd had the time, she could've gotten Molly to admit Mitch had physically abused her. The woman's timid demeanor made perfect sense now - and her silent interaction with Vincent. Molly wasn't afraid of him, but she was damned sure afraid of what Vincent would do if he ever suspected Mitch laid so much as a hand on her.

Yeah, he definitely should've taken out Denton in that warehouse when he'd had the chance. It would have saved them all a lot of heartache. Almost as if she'd spoken her thoughts aloud, Vincent looked back over his shoulder at her. Diana gave him a passing glance and turned back to his friend.

Molly was asking, "What's this about? Why are you asking me about Mitch? What's he done?"

"Listen, I'm real sorry to have to tell you this," Diana hesitated, hating what she had to do. "Mitch is dead, Molly. He was shot to death yesterday. I'm sorry."

The silence stretched out long enough to finally make Vincent turn away from the window. Molly stared blankly at Diana and then one corner of her mouth jerked up in a disbelieving, rictus grin.

"No," Molly declared. "He can't be. You're lying." Diana met her skepticism with a sober, steady look and Molly frantically turned her attention to Vincent.

"Vincent?" she entreated hoarsely, her voice already clogging with tears. Mouth pulled tight, he confirmed the news with a single, terse nod.

A wave of anguish slammed into Diana so strongly it practically shoved her back into the loveseat. Molly started to keen: a high-pitched, unearthly sound. Diana struggled to swim her way through the pain that was not hers - but just as deeply felt - and rise to offer the woman some comfort. She was reminded anew of why she'd jumped at the chance to join the 210. Giving death notifications was too painful a job. Better to come in on the tail-end of things, when the first rush of grief and disbelief had faded into some sort of acceptance.

Diana squeezed her eyes shut for a beat to gain some composure and started to get up. But she was too late: Vincent was already there. Had pulled Molly to her feet and was grasping her in a tight embrace. The top of her head barely reached the middle of his chest and she was completely engulfed by him.

Diana felt the compassion flowing from Vincent. And felt its affects dilute the sharpest, rawest edges of Molly's pain. She knew he was drawing that pain into himself, willingly taking on a part of it so it would be less overwhelming for Molly, less of a burden.

She and Vincent shared a long look as he comforted the woman who'd loved Mitch Denton despite his obvious flaws, had trusted him. Diana could see the glint of unshed tears in Vincent's eyes. And she found herself wondering on how many occasions, over his lifetime, Vincent had shared and absorbed the raw emotions of those he loved. How many times had he shouldered the burden of pain, as well as the gift of joy?

And how on earth could he stand it? Especially now, when he was dealing with the ebb and flow of his own grief, coming so close to the anniversary of Catherine's death. Yet he was willing to take on even more of it. And not even willing, so much as compelled. Vincent didn't know how _not_ to share the feelings of others. It was what connected him to the people he loved in both worlds, anchored him and gave him solid ground on which to stand. It was what made him who and what he was: poignantly, vulnerably human.

Diana had long ago accepted her empathic gift as an eccentricity, a thing that set her somewhat apart from your everyday, average Joe, but didn't put her all that high on the weird scale she kept in her head. But Vincent … he was a whole other creature entirely, in more ways than one. The strength of spirit his gifts demanded of him was almost beyond her ken. Diana knew it would have driven her insane years ago.

But not Vincent. He just kept chugging along. Sure, he'd had a few stops and starts, events that'd almost killed him or had driven him to the brink of madness. But he'd always come out victorious in the end. Always. How extraordinary he was. Diana felt humbled, unworthy. And so very grateful to have him in her life - and to have his love.

Molly's sobs eventually died down to ragged hiccups of sighs and Vincent helped her settle back into the chair and crouched beside her, laying his hand on her arm.

"Molly, you're not safe here. You must come Below," he told her.

"Not safe? What do you mean?" She reached for a tissue on the table beside her, drying her eyes and daintily blowing her nose.

"Diana and I have reason to believe the ones who murdered Mitch may be planning an attack on me. Or on the tunnels. Perhaps both. It would safer for you Below, within the Hub, where you'd be protected. Whoever did this thing to Mitch may come after you next."

Molly gaped at him dazedly. "An attack … on the tunnels? On _you_?" Molly swung around to look at her for confirmation and Diana saw the realization hit her like a two-by-four upside the head. "Oh God," she whispered, turning back to Vincent, "Mitch told the secret, didn't he? He told them everything and then they killed him. Oh God, what have I done?"

It was Diana who answered her as Vincent hung his head and remained silent.

"It's not your fault, Molly," she gently assured her. "You didn't know any better. But Vincent's right: you're not safe here. You should come Below with us, right now. Can I help you get a few things packed?"

Molly scrubbed a sleeve under her nose and started to stand, nodding her assent. "Okay, yeah, if you think it's best. Thank you." The woman was clearly in shock. You didn't need a psych degree to see that. She stumbled getting to her feet and Vincent stood and reached out to steady her at the same instant Diana did, holding her between them.

"I got her," Diana told him and Vincent stepped back. Something in his face made her stop just as she was about to turn and steer the tiny woman toward the bedroom. His expression was slack, his skin ashen. He was looking in her general direction but his eyes were unfocused, distant. And the cause popped into her head with no consideration: Vincent was suffering the backlash of an emotional overload of grief - Molly's, hers, his own. Like some kind of strange empathic hangover; one that hit immediately instead of the morning after, and had rolled over him with all the power and force of a freight train. Because as remarkable and as strong as he was, even Vincent had his limits.

"You okay, babe?" Diana asked.

He didn't get a chance to answer, because just then the window in the bedroom behind them exploded inward in a crash of shattering glass. Diana heard something hit the floor and turned just as a concussive blast of blinding light and earth-shattering sound threw her to the floor. She rolled into a ball and pulled her shoulders up tight, wrapping her arms around her head to keep it from exploding. But she couldn't do that and rub the sight back into her eyes at the same time. So she tried to do both. She was convulsive with the need to shield herself from the effects of the dizzying blast and the equally powerful instinct to get her weapon freed from the holster at her side.

Eyes squeezed shut, she rolled off her gun and felt the impact of something falling to the floor next to her. Diana forced one eye open and flinched away at the sight of Molly sprawled beside her, a single bullet wound in her forehead weakly oozing dark blood. Molly's eyes were wide and empty, staring off at something Diana had no desire to see anytime soon.

She finally jerked her pistol loose and rolled up onto her knees, feeling like she'd been run over by a truck and yelling Vincent's name. At least she thought she was yelling: she couldn't hear anything but the blood pounding in her ears. Diana scraped an arm across her eyes, blinking madly against the afterimage of a thousand suns. The room was hazy with acrid smoke and Diana twirled on her knees, staying low to the floor and searching frantically for Vincent while waving her gun at the still unseen attackers who'd unleashed this hell on them.

She finally caught sight of him just as the second tranquilizer dart struck him in the chest. "No!" she shouted and tried to get her feet under her as Vincent's eyes sought hers. They were dazed and filled with sad, apologetic resignation. He staggered, listing heavily to one side as Diana lost her footing in the spreading pool of Molly's blood and slid back down to the floor.

Vincent dropped to his knees. He remained there for a few seconds, weaving slightly, and then toppled over like a felled tree, landing on his side with an enormous crash that vibrated the floorboards beneath her. His eyes remained open and locked on hers. And just as they slowly began to slide shut Diana cried, "No, Vincent, stay with me!"

She crawled her way over to him, the grip of her pistol gouging shallow scrapes in the hardwood floor as she went. She was reaching a hand out to him just as she caught movement from the corner of her eye and turned in time to see the butt of a rifle coming at her fast. It struck her just above the left eye with the impact of a sledge hammer. Diana crumpled to the floor next to Vincent and began an endless fall into nothingness.

© Lydia Bower 2012


	4. Book Four: Vessel

4. Vessel

"_There's only one bond that counts."_

There was something around his neck.

It was the sensation of choking that finally forced Vincent to consciousness. He rolled his head back and to the side and the awful pressure subsided. Drawing in a gasping breath, he struggled to move, to escape the dizziness enveloping him, and found it impossible.

He was on his feet, blindfolded, and shackled to a wall. Vincent straightened from the limp position he'd awakened in and tested the restraints, grunting against his rising panic. The pressure around his throat he now knew to be a leather collar. His arms were pulled behind him, wrists bound together in another leather cuff and linked to the wall at his back by a thick, short chain. His ankles were secured in much the same way and there was another, wider restraint strapped around his waist. Testing, Vincent discovered he had perhaps four inches of play in the chains securing him to the wall. Not nearly enough to allow him to exert any sort of force against them. He was trapped, blind, and completely helpless.

The room where he was being held was chilly and filled with the cloyingly sweet smell of incense. A wave of nausea surged through him and Vincent swallowed back the bile threatening to choke him. There was no sound he could detect but that of the blood pounding in his ears.

And then he remembered the blast that'd almost knocked him to his feet as he and Diana had stood in Molly's apartment. Remembered the shock of the concussive force, of seeing Diana on the floor struggling to get up, and the spray of hot blood when Molly had been brought down by a single bullet. Vincent winced as he recalled the sharp sting of the darts hitting him in the chest, and the caustic sadness that'd rolled through him as he'd realized what was happening and what it meant.

He pulled in a deep breath and strained against the leather cuffs and chains, growling in frustration and fear when his efforts yielded nothing. But still he tried, over and again, jerking to both sides and forward, until the trembling of his muscles and the strangling pressure against his throat forced him to stop. His knees gave out and he sagged against the restraints, head tipped back to give him sufficient room to breathe.

His futile efforts, along with the lingering traces of the sedative he'd been drugged with, brought about a gradual darkness deeper than that of the blindfold, leeching into his vision, clouding the random sparks of light firing off behind his eyelids. Vincent blinked hard against it, fighting the growing dizziness, knowing he couldn't win. Seconds later, he spiraled back down into the blackness from which he'd come.

**...**

Diana was certain it'd been a nightmare when her eyes popped open and she recognized the ceiling above her as belonging to her bedroom. But then she tried to lift her head and a lightning bolt of pain arced through it and centered itself above her left eye. She reached with a shaky, tentative hand and explored the tender goose egg there.

Hissing, "Sonofabitch," she turned carefully on her side and squinted at the daylight filtering through the glass blocks of the exterior wall. Yeah, she was home. A painful glance down confirmed she was wearing the clothes she'd had on the previous evening – and those were stained with miniscule spots of blood, like she'd been caught in a mist of scarlet-colored rain. And then she remembered it all and rolled off the bed and to her feet, hands flying up to cradle her head as it threatened to implode, muttering, "Vincent … Shit!"

Staggering to the bathroom, Diana barely made the slide on her knees to the toilet, where she was racked with painful dry heaves that made her head throb in sickening waves. _Concussion_, she decided, as she laid her cheek against the cold porcelain of the toilet. Mild, she hoped, because she didn't have time to lie around waiting for her head to decide if it was going to stay attached or not. She had to find Vincent.

Unfolding cautiously from the floor, Diana rinsed her mouth out at the sink and splashed cold water on her face before clawing open the medicine cabinet and grabbing aspirin. Tossing six in her mouth, she washed them down with a cupped handful of water. She hazarded a look in the mirror, inspecting the lump on her forehead and the resultant bruise beginning to blacken her eyelid. Most of her hair had come loose of the braid and lay in thick chunks over her shoulders, except for what was haloed around her head in frizzy curls. Her face was beyond pale, freckles standing out in stark relief. Mascara was smeared under her eyes, marking her like a raccoon, like Mouse's Arthur.

"Great," she sneered, turning away. Swiping wet fingers under her eyes, she used a hand towel to take care of most the mascara. Tugging the remainder of her braid loose and pulling everything back, Diana secured the untamed mess in a low ponytail. Risking a second look in the mirror, she declared her reflection good enough. She didn't have time to worry - or care - someone might still mistake her for the morning after of a really drunken and foolish one night stand: she had to find Vincent.

Shedding wrinkled and blood-specked clothes as she went, Diana left the bathroom and grabbed a pair of jeans from the back of the bedroom chair. Bending over to slip them on proved to be a bad idea and she fell bonelessly into the chair and closed her eyes against a sudden wave of dizziness.

She sat there just long enough to wonder why she was still alive, why the hell Celina would bring her home after the attack, still breathing and relatively in one piece. Diana couldn't make anything come together in her head: her brain was still too freshly scrambled. But she knew, even before things could start to make more sense, everything would eventually lead back to the same fact: Vincent was gone and Celina had him.

_Okay_, she thought, _simple things first. Finish getting dressed. Grab a cab to the nearest threshold. Take it from there._

She stayed in the chair and managed to get her jeans pulled on, and then boots. She slowly shoved up and grabbed a knit Henley from the shelf in the closet and pulled it over her head, wincing as it brushed against the knot on her forehead. Then into the main room of the loft where she stood for a second, squinting against the brighter daylight streaming through the bank of windows ahead of her. A slow scan of the room (because any sharp movement of her head was completely out of the question) offered up the sight of her leather tote bag and trench coat waiting for her in the arm chair. She was only mildly surprised to find her holster, pistol in place, under the coat.

Well, sure, it made perfect sense. If they were going to be nice enough not to kill her, to bring her home and put her to bed, why not go the extra mile and make sure her weapon got home with her?

Scratch that: it didn't make a goddam bit of sense, at least not to her. But Diana wasn't calling the shots anymore. Celina had made that perfectly clear. And twisted though they might be, she was sure the woman had reasons for everything she'd done.

Peering into her tote just long enough to make sure her wallet and badge were still there, Diana slipped on her holster and then the trench, grabbing the tote and making a quick side trip to the desk to snatch her darkest pair of sunglasses from the drawer where they lived. She was on the street and in a cab within minutes.

Scuffing through the upper tunnels, Diana only went as far as the first set of bundled pipes and the faint sound of messages being tapped out. Squatting down to grab a rock, she sent out a call of her own, wincing against the sharp report of stone against pipe:

((Diana. Chambers Street threshold. Need help. Respond. Respond.))

She made herself wait thirty seconds before repeating the message, sending it a half dozen times and then leaning against the curved tunnel wall to wait for a response. It finally came and she instantly recognized the terse message as Pascal's:

((Pascal - Diana. Acknowledged. Emergency?))

She lifted the rock to answer and then hesitated, wondering whether it was even safe to be using the pipes. Then realized it was too late to be cautious. Mitch Denton was dead, as was Molly. And Vincent was gone. If Celina's plans included an attack on the tunnels as well, she didn't have any time to waste being circumspect. But choosing her words and tapping them out, she discovered she was anyway.

((Diana - Pascal. No emergency. Send someone?))

The reply came only seconds later:

((Pascal - Diana. Understood. Sending.))

She loosened her hold on the rock and let it drop at her feet. Pascal would likely send whichever sentry was closest and Diana vaguely hoped it wouldn't be one of the older kids. Better an adult hear her news and pass it on to Father. No sense in terrifying the kids, who loved Vincent beyond measure and wouldn't be able to understand why any of this was happening. Hell, she didn't understand it either.

Maybe the kids were still in class, or busy at chores. And that was when she realized she didn't even know what time it was. Shoving back the sleeve of her coat to glance at her watch, she was shocked to see it was nearly three in the afternoon. Which meant Vincent had been taken almost fifteen hours earlier. For all she knew, he could be in another country by now and so far out of her reach she'd never find him.

But Diana didn't think so. She hoped not, anyway. She had to believe he was still close. And then stopped short of smacking her forehead in dismay for not thinking of it sooner. Taking a deep breath, she leaned against the wall and cleared her mind as best she could. Pulling in slow, deep breaths and just as gradually releasing them, she opened her huncher as far as it would go and reached out to Vincent.

She got back nothing. At least not anything recognizable. Nothing that felt like what she'd come to think of as the Vincent-ness of him: that steady, warm thread of strength, intelligence, and compassion; the solemn, hopeful heart of him; the lawless and brutal otherness she accepted and understood because part of her shared it. Diana couldn't feel any of that.

_C'mon, c'mon_, she pleaded, calling out to him with her quiet inner voice, _please, Vincent, please be there._

Just as she began to despair, Diana caught the very edge of something, hardly enough to grasp and then only with the lightest of touches. But it felt wholly like Vincent to her, though so faint she could barely pick it up, like the silence that wasn't quite silence you'd hear when a radio dial was stuck between two stations. What she felt wasn't so much an emotion as simply proof he was still there, still alive, and somewhere in the city Above.

_Hang on, babe_, she thought with fierce conviction. _I'm gonna find you. _

Diana opened her eyes as she heard footfalls and spotted Mouse heading toward her at a slow jog. He slid to a stop a few feet in front of her, panting hard and looking around before he finally focused on her.

"Hi, Diana! Pascal said come. Where's Vincent? Father's looking for him." Mouse ducked his head apologetically and explained, "He's mad. Father is. Jacob's thingy is tonight and Vincent's late. Not with you?"

"Yeah, about that, Mouse –"

"You're hurt. How?" Mouse interrupted, frowning and pointing at her forehead.

"It's nothing. Look, I need you to get a message to Father, okay? It's real important. It's about Vincent."

Diana saw realization dawning on the tunnel community's whiz kid faster than she'd thought it would. Though she tended to view Mouse as an odd but harmless hybrid of big, clumsy puppy - like a lab or retriever - and scarecrow package of patchwork and badly cut straw-blonde hair, she could never afford to discount the scattered genius of his mind. He was almost as quick as Vincent, when he needed to be.

Mouse was asking, eyes wide and whispering in alarm, "He's gone, isn't he? The bad one took him."

"I'm afraid so, Mouse. Last night." Diana thought about telling him she'd been knocked out and had only just come to a little while ago and then decided it didn't matter. She wasn't there to explain why she was just now letting them know what'd happened. And if Father wanted to think the worst of her for it, so be it. She'd deal with that when she was finished with her topside business.

Mouse was gearing up to full scale panic. She could see it in the way his eyes were darting wildly, this way and that. He was practically vibrating as he muttered, "This is bad. Worse than bad. Worse than worst."

She softly spoke his name and Mouse snapped to attention, those frantic eyes lifting to pin hers.

"Look, you gotta tell Father …" she began, hesitating a beat, filtering out what could wait and what couldn't. "Tell him he needs to lock the Hub down tight, 'cause I don't know what she may do now, what might be coming next. Tell him I'm working on figuring out where Vincent is and I'll be back as soon as I can, okay?" Diana laid her hand on his arm, looking him square in the eye. "Can you do that, Mouse?"

His head bobbed like it was on a spring. "Tell Father, sure. Right now. No problem." Diana was caught off-guard as Mouse grabbed her in swift embrace and then as quickly stepped back.

"Be careful," he said, dipping his head, embarrassed by his own gesture. And then he flicked his eyes up at her and urgently and with absolute faith ordered, "Go now. Find Vincent. Bring him home."

And it was almost like it wasn't until that very moment that Diana realized how bad things really were. As if it had taken some time, and giving voice to the reality of the situation, before it'd fully sunk in that Vincent was undeniably gone. And now that reality rose up in front of her like her worst nightmares come horribly to life. If it was this bad for her, what kind of hell was Vincent going through?

Diana's heart gave a painful lurch in her chest and she wanted nothing more than to give in to the desolation she felt, sink to her knees and cry like a baby. But the sure and simple trust she felt coming from Mouse wouldn't allow her that weakness. And so she promised him as she turned away, "I will, Mouse. I'll find him."

As Diana headed back uptop, she scratched off the previous items on her mental To-Do list and added new ones.

_Find a pay phone and call work, then Stosh. Grab coffee and more aspirin. Go back to Molly's apartment. _

**...**

When next he came awake, Vincent was aware most of the tranquilizer had left his system. He was slightly more clear-headed, though still dizzy and breathless from the collar's pressure, a persistent binding he couldn't comfortably escape. And now there was also the fatigue of being upright for so long, without movement to flex and stretch the muscles of limbs too long in one position. His shoulders ached from his arms being held behind his back; his legs were trembling incessantly, the soles of his feet throbbing in heartbeat pulses.

Vincent shook off enough of the fogginess in his head to become aware he wasn't alone anymore. He heard the sounds of soft breathing and caught the scent of warm flesh and old roses, fainter than the incense that still filled the room, but enough for him to detect. Reaching out tentatively, he opened himself to whatever his other senses might tell him of the person in the room with him. And seconds later found himself instinctively pressing back against the wall he was shackled to, a visceral apprehension surging through him and shouting a warning to flee. For what he'd sensed was the absence of anything decent, anything civilized. He felt nothing but darkness, nothing but evil intent.

"Who's there?" he whispered roughly, and felt that dark presence turn its attention to him.

"Ah, you're awake," came a thickly accented voice: a woman, and perhaps ten feet to his left, moving toward him. Vincent's heart was pounding, his breath coming ever more rapidly in alarm, until he was on the verge of panting as she came to a stop directly before him.

"Oh, look at you," the woman crooned. "La bestia. You're even more magnificent in the flesh." Vincent startled as the woman's fingertips landed on his cheek and trailed slowly down his neck, coming to a rest curled around the upper edge of the collar. He couldn't pull away, could do nothing more than turn his head and endure that cold touch until it lifted.

"Celina?" he breathed.

That elicited a humorless chuckle. "No, child, I am not she. I am but a helper."

The bitter irony of that term was not lost on him. _Paracelsus had his helpers, too,_ he thought absently. _And Gabriel._

"What do you want?" he demanded. He sensed no physical threat from this stranger and was finding the memory of his past enemies transforming his fear into anger. Vincent had spent too many hours caged or in chains; drugged and disoriented, lost to himself. The stirrings of a deeply-seated resentment began twisting inside him.

"It is not me you need to ask," came the dismissive response. "Celina will be along shortly, just as soon as preparations have been completed." The woman moved again, this time to his right, and Vincent felt her assessing eyes on him. "Oh, she has chosen well, I'll give her that." Vincent flinched again as fingertips trailed across his chest. "You mustn't be frightened, for she means you no harm. She wants only to help you."

Vincent's skepticism turned his reply into a snarl. "Help me?"

"You don't believe me. Ah, but you'll see soon enough. You have no idea what's in store for you. She will open up worlds to you; show you wonders you cannot begin to imagine. She will grant your heart's desire."

"I desire only to be set free," Vincent reproached. "Will she grant me that?"

"As I said, it is she you must ask. I am only here to set the stage."

"For what?"

Her answer came at the same moment he found his head caught up in her hands and held in a grasp stronger than he thought possible. The woman's breath fell across his face, sour and old, her words brusque and full of malice.

"Your liberation, my dear."

The chill of her palms against his cheeks, the ancient dark of her evil presence, seeped into him through her touch and sent a deep shiver coursing through him. His skin broke out in goose-bumps, the sleek pelt that covered it bristling against the sudden cold. Vincent found himself facing a pervasive dread unlike any he'd ever known, as he was invaded by the sinister power of the woman's touch. He felt violated, helpless, his anger transmuting into an urgent need to escape what was happening, as icy fingers began to swim languidly through his veins. He threw himself against the restraints in wild, heedless spasms of alarm, his face still pressed between her hands as in a vise, muscles straining and pulling, adding fierce waves of pain to the ever-increasing chill rocketing through him.

Then, just as swiftly, an awful, heavy lassitude crashed over and into him; his ineffectual struggles ceasing as he sagged against the wall. The air whistled coldly through his lungs, high and thin, as muscles screamed in protest. Vincent felt as if he were standing on the brink of a bottomless chasm, unsteadily balanced on the ledge of a nothingness more expansive than that of the Abyss. His mind spun, fragments of thoughts whirling crazily in his head, colliding into each other and ricocheting away and out of his grasp.

Ghosts of feelings, of events remembered, rose up within him and demanded the attention of his battered soul. Dancing about him like wraiths, they touched him here and there with remembrances of pain, love, grief, joy: the absolutes, the most secreted memories of his heart. Once hidden and safe, they now sought a freedom beyond his confines, commanding his notice. And if they could not have it, he knew with an awful clarity that the power threatening to overtake him would snatch them away and they would be lost to him. Gone. Forever gone.

And then suddenly came the fire, another fresh layer of hell added to the maelstrom overwhelming his senses, his body, his very mind. Vincent felt prickles of heat flare and spark, beginning in his fingers and toes, shocking his system with the instantaneous contrast, spreading upward, moving steadily, hotly, into the very center of his being. He once again tried to twist away from the hands holding his face, the source of the power, desperate to escape the inferno now racing to devour him.

"Let go, bestia! Open your heart!" the old woman demanded.

Struggling with his last measure of strength, reaching deep within himself and praying for an end to the agony, Vincent heard an unearthly cry of despair ringing in his ears and recognized it as his own, while at the same moment the woman's hands flew from his face. But it was too late now, and the flames too close. A muscular wave of fire flexed and shot inward from all directions, pushing him off the inner ledge and into the gaping mouth of a monster.

The fire consumed him, the conflagration licking at every corner and crevice of his mind, wielding its way ever deeper into the very soul of him, the essence of who and what he was. Every thought and emotion, every desire and dream he'd held close, was touched by the flames and left raw and exposed: laid out like a banquet for the power that'd invaded him, like food for a starving presence that would never get its fill.

Vincent instinctively jerked and bucked against the restraints in anguish, unfelt tears streaming from his eyes and soaking the blindfold across his face, breath coming in ragged, fitful grunts. He gave one more massive pull, muscles stretching beyond endurance, and collapsed against the restraints, the last of his strength leeching away.

Vincent thought with calm acceptance, _I'm dying_.

Then dimly, as if from a faraway place, he heard the old woman again, speaking words not meant for him.

"It is done, Celina. Go to him. Take what you need."

**...**

Diana bounced on her toes as she stood inside a phone booth that reeked of urine, waiting for Stosh to come on the line. She chugged a mouthful of bitter take-out coffee and almost choked on it when his voice came across the wire.

"Diana, what is it? Nick said -"

"She got him. Took him last night. From up here. Came outta nowhere. Tranqed him with darts. 'Bout took my head off – clocked me good. I don't know what the hell I'm supposed to do here."

"Whoa, Diana, slow down a minute." Stosh's voice was level, and as slow and calm as hers was frantic. "Tell me what happened."

She pushed out a breath and leaned against the glass wall at her back. "Okay, listen: he was with me when I was interviewing a witness -"

"He was with you _when_?" came Stosh's incredulous interruption, and Diana's fevered imagination created and ran a short film of her hauling Vincent around on interviews with her, working cases for the 210, and she swallowed down hysterical and entirely inappropriate laughter. Talk about witness intimidation.

"Goddam it," she snapped impatiently, at herself as much as Stosh. "Will you just listen to me?"

That got her silence, which she took as a yes. "They must have followed us, waiting for us or something. The woman we were talking to was a friend of his, they grew up together. She was the one giving information to the guy working for Celina. Who also grew up with him. Yeah, I know, I'll fill you in on that later. What matters now is that I find him. You need to get hold of your guy and find out what he knows. I need something, a place to start."

"Diana -"

"I already ruled out the office building. Not private enough. She might have him at the penthouse, but maybe not. It'd have to be like a goddam fortress, and soundproofed …" She took a breath as she remembered Vincent's roar as he'd swatted down the junkie who'd held a gun to her head several months back. She shook free of the memory and kept talking. "I know he's close, I know he is, I can feel him, but there's no bond like he had with Cathy, it's not like that. I can't get a direction from him - I don't know where to start. But I gotta find him. I need your help."

Stosh waited just long enough to decide she was finished and said, "Tell me where you are. I'll send Nick to get you."

"No, I can't. Got things I gotta do. Just contact your guy and see what he knows."

She heard a sigh. "Diana, it's not that simple."

"Why the hell not?"

"Because I've been trying to reach him for two days, with no luck. He missed the last meeting we had set up. I don't know if he went underground or what, but he is way out of pocket."

It happened in a split second, in a single beat of her heart. And Diana could've sworn she heard the pieces sliding together and locking tight in her head when it did. She was suddenly a breath away from screaming into the phone, reaching with her free hand to cradle her tender forehead as a horrible certainty rose up and grabbed her by the throat. Instead of rupturing Stosh's eardrum, she settled for sliding down the glass, ending up in a squat only as deep as the flexible metal phone cord would let her fold.

"This guy of yours," she heard herself asking with frightening calm, "the one you got on the inside, what's he look like? What's his name?"

"I don't know about this, Diana …" Stosh's hesitation to give up what he obviously considered sensitive information was palpable. But that was too bad, because she didn't have time to play games with him.

"You listen to me very carefully, Stosh, 'cause I'm only gonna say this once. I'm a goddam cop, remember? Got the badge and gun to prove it. And last time I checked, there was no statute of limitations on a murder charge. You understand me? Now answer my question."

There was a long silence from the other end of the phone. And then, clipped and angry: "Don't pull that bullshit on me. I put my life on the line contacting you in the first place. You wouldn't even know where to begin if I hadn't warned you about Celina. And if it's murder you're talking about, I got nothing on the guy whose ass you're asking me to help you find - not when it comes to that. You might want to back off a minute and rethink the way you're approaching this situation."

Diana shut her eyes hard for a second, knowing Stosh was absolutely on the mark. He deserved better than that from her. So she took a breath and told him so, apologizing and adding, "I'm just … I'm scared. And worried sick. Got the mother of all headaches … And I got a real bad feeling we been double-crossed and played for fools."

"What do you mean?" he asked.

It took a couple minutes of prodding to shake Stosh loose, and then a few more minutes of back and forth to confirm, as least as far as she was concerned, that the invertebrate scum-sucker known as the un-dearly departed Mitch Denton had been working for both Celina Corbin and Elliot Burch, and being paid to dish out measured portions of information to both interested parties.

Stosh explained that he'd made use of Denton's services several years in the past, back before he'd met Catherine Chandler and his definition of what was moral, ethical, and legal had been changed and shaped by her advent and influence on his life. When he'd decided to look deeper into the Corbin family business for answers after he'd gone underground to nurse his wounds, Stosh had reached out to a man he knew could do the job. And apparently Celina had done the same, for her own twisted purposes.

Yeah, it really was a small world, after all.

"Let's do this," Stosh was saying. "I'll get some of my guys to dig up what they can on the penthouse and the place in Connecticut. You do whatever you can on your end and we'll talk again tonight. Maybe meet up somewhere. I'd rather not do this on the phone."

Diana nodded an okay and then realized, despite what her head felt like, Stosh couldn't hear it rattling.

"Yeah, okay. But we gotta move on this. She's already had him too goddam long. Shouldn't've gotten to him in the first place."

"I know you're scared, Diana, but you've got to keep it together. You can't go rushing headlong into this: you'll just get yourself killed." Something in the even tone of his voice reached in and shook awake a little piece of calm in her. She took her first full breath, too long since the last, as Stosh continued, "Celina took her time planning this, and you have to take your time, too. Be smart about it."

"Yeah, you're right. Look, I gotta get moving. I'll call you later." She glanced at her watch. "How about ten o'clock or so, that okay?"

"Yeah, that's fine. Diana … be careful."

"Just call me Safety Girl," she replied and came out of her squat to hang up the phone. She stepped out to the curb and hailed a cab. Molly's apartment was next, to see what she could find there - if it wasn't already an official crime scene and under the control of the department, she just might discover something that'd get her closer to finding Vincent and bringing him home.

As she gave the address to the cabbie and tipped her head back against the seat, fighting off tears, Diana found herself seriously praying for the first time in a long time. Not since Vincent had been laid out in her bedroom, half-dead and reeking of despair and diesel fuel, had she fallen back on the faith instilled in her from Day One.

_God helps those who help themselves_ was a phrase and a belief that went just as deep in her, and had been called upon much more often than when she'd been younger and less pragmatic. But sometimes even she had to have more, trust in more than that. And just now, Diana could use all the help she could get.

**...**

Softness. Warmth. A cool cloth on his feverish forehead. And the unending ache of his shoulders, back, arms. So great a pain it was, he couldn't contemplate moving. But his sensitive fingers could, and did, discovering the smooth cotton threads of the sheet and the cushioning softness of the bed he lay upon. Still sightless, the dark blindfold in place, he knew if he wanted to badly enough and was willing to endure the pain, he could push it away. But there was no need. Vincent's other senses told him all there was to know.

The sweet smell of lilacs came to him on every breath, so pure and distinct he could almost taste them. The second movement of Mozart's clarinet concerto played quietly from another part of the room: the adagio, his favorite. The soft strains of music were like an elixir for his battered soul, gently drifting into his ears and wrapping soothing threads of peace around him. He dozed and floated in that shimmering place between true sleep and wakefulness - content to be doing simply that. And to be slowly healing and in no immediate danger.

He roused when the cloth was lifted from his brow and a hand replaced it: small and soft and whisper-light. But it was a substantial enough touch that Vincent could sense something of the person it belonged to. And in those first few moments he wanted to weep in response to what he felt: a hopeless, timeless longing; a sadness as large as any he'd ever known; a soul's despair that cried out for recognition and relief.

Vincent had felt similar things before, within himself in his darkest moments, and in some of the more unfortunate children who'd been rescued and brought Below. Especially the ones who'd been horribly neglected and had spent their scant few years from birth onward never knowing was it was to truly be loved. Deprived of that most essential of emotions and the soul's protection it could provide, these children required special care and attention when brought into the tunnel community.

And it would always be Vincent who would be beside them, almost from their first moments there. It was he who would guide them toward self-assurance and a knowledge of self-worth. He, who would show them what it was to know love, to experience it, finally, within, and to then give it to others with a heart open to such potentials, even after so long a time spent barren. For Vincent knew that with love, all things were possible.

And what he wanted now was to reach out in that same way to the one who sat beside him and gently lifted his head, placing the rim of a glass again his dry lips. Who encouraged him with wordless murmurs to drink deeply of the clear, cold water, quenching his enormous thirst. Who then slipped behind him and gave him a soft, fragrant lap in which to rest his weary head and shoulders, braced against that living warmth.

It was so difficult to move, and no immediate need to do so, had he desired it. Enough to be held and soothed and perhaps, if he could, even inert and listless as he was, begin to heal the heart of this lost soul. For there was something yet deeper than the sadness and despair he sensed there, something he recognized in the most primal part of who he was. An awareness that tickled at his consciousness with coy fingertips; which called out to him, soft and low. He drifted to sleep, following that call into his dreams.

Vincent woke hours later to sudden awareness and profound bewilderment. He lay still, not daring to move, not even willing to open his eyes, freed now from the blindfold. He thought he must still be dreaming, for no other explanation could stand against the truth of what he held in his arms. And what coursed through him with that embrace.

A presence, a being-ness, so identifiable to him, even after all the months gone by, that it was as if it resided within every cell of his body. A sweet and soft siren call of recognition, one he'd thought forever lost to him; the reawakening of a bond stronger than death itself.

Cautiously, against all hope, he opened his eyes to the dimness of an unfamiliar room and found his head cushioned on the soft pillow of a woman's belly, one arm draped around her in a gesture of possessiveness. Sensing eyes on him, and something that felt like calm awareness, slowly and with the utmost care Vincent lifted and turned his face toward the one he held, and who held him.

He found himself looking into dark, fathomless eyes. Eyes that gazed back at him with gentle concern. A face of delicate features: the limpid eyes, the full mouth, the aristocratic planes of cheekbones, nose, and chin. And it mattered not that her face wasn't the same, or that the curves he rested upon were fuller than he remembered, or that the voice whispering softly to him was of a different quality and tone. It was still miraculous to him - for the core, the very well from which all sprang, was not strange to him in the least. It was familiar and deeply loved and was like coming home. And Vincent found it wasn't a dream, after all.

"Shhhh, you're safe," this familiar stranger murmured, stroking his tangled mane. "You're safe now. Sleep."

How easy it was to lay his head back down and allow his eyes to close once more. How simple to drift along on the waves of her deep and abiding presence. How precious a gift to be able to form her name on his lips and bring it forth in a whispered declaration of absolute and immutable recognition:

"Catherine."

**...**

Molly's apartment had been a bust. No cops anywhere and no sign of what'd gone down the night before in the apartment itself. Diana had slipped in through the brand-new bedroom window and had almost been knocked over by the overwhelming stink of cleaning compounds. Whatever clues might have been left to lead her to Vincent had been wiped out, along with all traces of Molly's murder.

She'd stood in the center of the living room and turned slow circles, muttering curses and prayers in equal measure. A quick round of questioning the neighbors had yielded nothing but blank stares, which Diana instantly knew as the kind bought and paid for, or triggered by the real threat of bodily harm. With nowhere left to go but back down Below, she'd caught another cab to the loft and treated herself to a hot shower, clean clothes, most of a pot of coffee, and copious amounts of aspirin.

Now she sat at the table in Father's study and tried not to wince too plainly as he poked at her newly cleaned and sanitized forehead and then shone a penlight in her eyes. Father muttered under his breath, straightening up and giving her a critical study.

"Certainly a mild concussion, judging by your symptoms and the severity of the blow you received. But your pupils are reacting normally. I don't suppose you'd consider visiting a hospital and having a series of x-rays done to definitively rule out skull fracture." Off her look, he made another unhappy sound. "No, of course not, that would make far too much sense, now wouldn't it?"

"I'll be fine. Got a head like concrete."

"Luckily for you."

"Luck had nothing to do with it, Father. If Celina wanted me dead, I'd be dead."

He limped around an edge of the table and took a seat. "Phyllis is bringing a tray up for you. You need to eat something. Coffee and aspirin as a steady diet will only be tolerated by a body for so long. I really wish you'd take better care of yourself, Diana."

Their eyes met and held across the table. She could feel his genuine concern and couldn't help the surge of guilt that followed - like she'd let him down or something, by not eating enough or getting enough sleep. Or maybe it was guilt over letting his son get snatched right out from under her; and yet here Father sat, knowing all that and still caring enough about her to be worried. Diana blinked back tears and lowered her eyes.

"Listen, I didn't say it earlier, but I'm real sorry about all this, Father: what's happened to Vincent and Jacob's party being a bust and –"

"That's quite enough of that," Father retorted, cutting her off in a tone that allowed no argument. "You are not to blame for any of this and I won't sit here and allow you to shoulder the burden of guilt for the actions of a madwoman."

Diana glanced back up and met eyes that were steely gray with anger, but not at her. Maybe at the world, _her_ world, but not her. And Diana's hunch proved correct as Father continued:

"I will never understand how the world Above can be populated by so much evil. It makes no sense to me how some will continually and with malice aforethought inflict damage upon others for no discernible reason. This woman, this Celina Corbin, what on earth gives her the right to simply decide she wants my son and then take him in an act of violence that touches not only him, but those around him, the people he loves and those who love him? And at the cost of not one, but two lives – and perhaps more before it's all said and done! Sometimes I can't help but wonder why it is that all this tragedy has befallen Vincent. Surely there must be a reason for it, Diana, but I cannot see what it is."

They looked at each other for a long time, mirroring expressions of helpless anger. And Diana started thinking about the cases she'd worked over the years and all the crimes she'd struggled to understand – from both sides of the coin: victim and perpetrator. So many times the motive was greed. Someone had something the perp didn't have and wanted badly enough to kill for it. And it wasn't even money most of the time, or any of the other material possessions that seemed to motivate the crimes – not at the heart of them.

Diana had found it was the intangible these people were usually after: the one thing they'd made up their minds would satisfy all their needs and fill an empty space inside them. The greed was just a symptom of a disease that went much deeper. Diana remembered what Stosh had told her at their first meeting, about how the Corbins were known for collecting rarities and priceless things. Things unique enough that no one else could claim they had them. And she began to wonder what kind of hole Celina was trying to fill by taking Vincent.

Her question came out of nowhere a minute later, a flash of a thought veering off in a different but similar enough direction from where she'd begun, and followed far enough along that it transformed itself into words.

"Do you ever forget, Father, that he's not like everybody else? You ever, I don't know, catch a glimpse of him out of the corner of your eye and it hits you all over again, how different he is?"

The glance she got in response was a curious one, surprised at first, then reflective as he took a minute to think over her question. He folded his half-gloved hands together and rested his chin against them, looking at her over the top of his glasses.

"I suppose I do, from time to time. We've spent so long in each other's company - better than a third of a century now - that I suppose it's only natural I might forget. But I'm generally quickly reminded by something Vincent will say, or do, or perhaps simply by the way he'll hold himself: a certain posture. His utter stillness, the singular focus, his … unique talents and skills. His spirit, though, Diana, his heart, those things can never be forgotten. It is what makes him, I think, the most different of all. I don't know that any of us could have endured what Vincent has and remained so … selfless, so willing still to give to others no matter the cost to himself. Ah, and here's your dinner."

The next several minutes were lost to Phyllis playing mother hen as she set a tray with a bowl of thick beef stew in front of Diana, along with a plate of cornbread and a tall glass of milk. She clucked at Diana's blackened eye and shook out a napkin with the snap of her wrist, handing it to her and leaving with instructions to signal if she wanted seconds.

Diana stared disinterestedly into the bowl with no appetite whatsoever and was a second from shoving it away when she caught Father's look across the table. It very plainly told her if she didn't pick up the spoon and feed herself, he'd be more than happy to do it for her. She vaguely wondered how many children over the years had seen that same look. Sighing in concession, she pulled the bowl closer and dug in.

After a few listless bites, her stomach woke up and pointed out it was still seriously empty - and the stew was damned good, besides. She found herself scraping the bowl clean and licking buttered cornbread crumbs from her fingers before she even ventured another peek at Father. He offered her a smug look of satisfaction and she bit down an urge to make a face at him. But then his eyes got serious and she looked him a question instead.

"And what about you, Diana," Father asked, responding to her silent inquiry and taking up their discussion as if there'd been no break. "Do you ever forget?"

She drained the last of the milk and wiped her mouth on the napkin, tossing it down next to the empty bowl. "No," she admitted. "Never. I don't think I ever will. He won't let me."

Off Father's curious frown, she went on: "It's not the man in him. That's not what's different. In even the narrowest sense of the definition, he's just like any other man. Wants the same things, worries about the same things. We're pretty simple creatures when it comes right down to it, don't you think? It's the other things, all the stuff around the edges that's different.

"I once told him that he's what he is because of who he is. Because nobody as remarkable as him could ever just blend in with the rest of us. There's so much … _more_ of him, there, than anybody I've ever known." Diana chuckled under her breath. "I remember when he was finally on his feet at my place, after the _Compass Rose_ blew up, and he'd been poking around the loft while I was downtown – you know: snooping, seeing what he could find out about me. He never admitted it, but I would've done the same thing. You gotta know who you're hunting, or who you might be prey to, right?

"So, anyway, he was kind of pissy with me when I got back, after he'd had a look at some of the stuff I'd dug up investigating Cathy's murder and trying to find him, too. He was worried and rightly so: he didn't know me from Adam. I explained to him how I work, how I try to get inside other people, imagine what it's like to be them or figure out what their next move might be. And he made some remark about how there was no way I could've imagined him. Said it like it was a challenge or something. And all puffed up about it, a weird sort of cast iron pride at being that different, almost daring me to disagree with him - like he was looking for an argument.

"So I let it slide. I fibbed: agreed with him and let it go. But he was wrong. Because I _could_ imagine him, I _did_ imagine him. Being with him, just knowing he's here," Diana glanced at Father and found him regarding her with soft, thoughtful eyes. "Loving him and knowing he loves me. He's a miracle, Father, he's exactly what I needed, like he was made for me. He's what I always knew was missing, but didn't ever think I'd find.

"It's like having a large and perfect unicorn who can recite Blake and Yeats in a way that finally makes perfect sense to you, who doesn't require an explanation because simply existing is answer enough; it's having that kind of magic suddenly take up residence smack dab in the middle of your life. No matter where you look it's there, dazzling and beautiful and such a goddam miracle. And no matter how many times you look at it, every time is like the first. And you can't imagine how you ever survived without it, and sometimes I love him so much it hurts, Father. It's like a knife in my heart. I swear to God, I will do whatever I have to do, no matter what it is. I'll find him. I'll bring him back. I have to. Because I can't do this without him anymore. I can't – I won't even bother trying."

Sometime during her declaration, Diana had begun to cry. But it wasn't until she stopped talking that she felt the hot tears coursing down her face and her nose beginning to run. She grabbed the napkin and made noisy use of it. And right after that was when Father reached across the table and mutely grasped her hand. That simple gesture, full of affection and familial concern, did her in. And it was a relief to finally shrug off the tough cop exterior and give in to the enormity of the fear and the sadness she'd been struggling with all day. It was like popping the lid of a pressure cooker and letting it all out. Safe and surrounded by love, Diana bowed her head and bawled like a baby, clutching at Father's hand.

**...**

"You ever hear of safe rooms, panic rooms?"

Diana was sitting in a booth at the White Horse Inn across the table from Stosh. It was past midnight and he was nursing a beer. She was back on the caffeine and sipping an exceptionally good cup of coffee. Who knew?

"Sure," she said. "They're like fall-out shelters for the rich and famous, right? Your own little bullet-proof safety zone. Reinforced walls and doors, straight phone line to 911, all the newest and best tech toys: security cameras and the like. Just in case the criminal element should decide to break in and steal all the family jewels while you're home."

Stosh leaned in close. "Wanna guess who got a construction permit a few months back to install a panic room in their top-floor penthouse on 5th Avenue?"

Diana gaped at him and then shut her jaw and hissed, "No shit? Are you sure?"

Stosh reached into his pocket and handed her a copy of the permit. She scanned it quickly, her heart pounding to beat all. Her eyes shot back to his. "Well, that's it, then. That's where she has him holed up. I gotta get in there."

"Slow down, Diana," Stosh had both hands up, like he was surrendering to her. "It's not that easy. It's not like you can just stroll in there, knock on the door, and demand she give him up."

She pushed back against the table, curling her hands around the curved edge of it and giving him a level gaze. "At the risk of repeating myself - and not directed at you this time, I swear - I'm a detective with the NYPD. You'd be surprised how far I can get with a badge and a smile."

She made a humorless, toothy grin as demonstration and leaned in. "I can get at least as far as the front door, Stosh. Maybe even get inside and get a look at the lay-out."

"You think Celina is just gonna welcome you in with open arms? She's more likely to put a bullet in your head."

"No," Diana retorted, shaking her head dismissively. "She won't kill me. She had her chance last night and didn't take it. She wants me alive. So I have to figure there's a good reason for it. And maybe it's just part of the game she's running: maybe she figures I'll come looking for her to find out why."

"You think she knew Denton was playing both sides?"

"It's possible. I don't know, Stosh, I can't get a bead on her, not enough to get in her head, not yet. But all this feels like some giant mind-fuck to me. Like it isn't enough just to take him, she has to rub my nose it in, too. You know how Gabriel was," she reminded him. "He was a master at mind games. Maybe it's in the family genes."

Diana waited while Stosh got lost wherever her reminder had taken him and then pinned him with a sober look when he found his way back. "If she did know about Denton working both sides, then she may also have been able to trace him right back to you. You need to be extra careful, Stosh, because I don't know that she doesn't want _you_ dead."

"Jesus," he said, swiping a hand across his face. "What is wrong with these people?"

Stosh was not a happy man and his expression reflected it. He looked indignant. As if the thought of people like the Corbin family existing at all offended him on some deep level. And if it hit a guy like him that way, a man who was no stranger to the darker side of life and had cooked up more than a few devious plans himself, then it had to be some special kind of bad they were facing.

"You figure that out, you let me know." Diana gathered up her coat and started to slide out of the booth. She stopped halfway and twisted around to look at him. "See if your guys can scare up a blueprint of this panic room she had built. It'd help to know what we're looking at. I gotta try to get some sleep or I'm not going to be worth a damn."

"Are you going back to your loft? Can I get a hold of you there?"

"No, I'm not going there. Someplace else. Look, just find out what you can and sit tight. I'll call you tomorrow. Not sure when. They're not real big on phones, where I'll be. And you watch yourself. Keep your eyes open and your head clear," she warned him, tilting a nod at the beer in his hand.

Stosh smirked at her. "Okay, Mom."

"It's your ass," she shot back, and headed for the street and a cab to the nearest threshold. Down below the city was a candle-lit chamber, another kind of safe room, overflowing with books and a quirky, eclectic assortment of knick-knacks and doo-hickeys, along with a deep and wide bed that smelled of Vincent. And if she couldn't have him there in it, the least she could do was keep it warm for him.

**...**

There were no chains holding him, no leather collar around his neck, but he was restrained just the same. A cage - even as lavishly appointed as this one - was still a cage. Or, to be precise, a prison cell - with walls instead of bars.

Vincent stood in front of the Renoir hanging on one of those walls, hands clasped loosely in front of him, and studied the vivid brush strokes of the painting. Though he recognized the piece and knew it as one that should be hanging in a gallery or a museum, he was almost certain it was an original.

_A piece in Celina's collection_, he thought. And then: _Have I become another?_

He twisted away from the painting, and the thought, and began pacing the small expanse of the room. As he moved, so did his eyes, but the antique furniture, the carefully placed art, the thick carpet beneath his feet and the raw silk adorning the walls, didn't really register in his mind. It was only when they swept over the massive, ornately carved and canopied bed that he paused, looking askance at it and then quickly away.

He had, on the first occasion of being left alone, done a swift but thorough examination of all four walls and the single door of the room. The walls were solidly reinforced with what his keen sense of smell had told him was newly forged steel. The door opened not on hinges, but by way of some type of hydraulic system, which allowed for it to be set flush into the wall with no way to force it and nothing to grasp and attempt to pry open. Vincent was quite effectively shut in, until he was either allowed to leave or could think clearly enough to formulate a plan of escape. He had no idea what lay beyond the door. He couldn't know that until he was through it.

**Why so anxious to leave, Vincent?** **Everything you wanted is here.**

_It's not real, _he argued with himself - or rather with the part that was Other, who'd made his presence impossible to ignore since he'd first woken up alone in the bed.

_She's not Catherine._

**Are you so sure? She feels like Catherine, within. **

_An illusion, a trick of magic. She means to dupe us into willful ignorance, to persuade us to stay on the strength of that illusion, and it's not real._

**It is when she touches us. Or have you forgotten?**

_Be still. Leave me alone._

Pivoting, Vincent dropped heavily onto the velvet cushions of a high-backed settee. Bracing elbows on knees, he steepled his hands and rested his forehead against them.

He didn't how or for certain, but he suspected he was being drugged. Perhaps in the food or drink he'd consumed. Though he had no clear memory of it, he had to believe he'd taken sustenance: his stomach was quiet and he wasn't suffering from any thirst. The effects of the drug were nothing like the tranquilizers that'd taken him down and into unconsciousness, nor like the powdery luminescence of Paracelsus' hallucinogen, which had brought all that was primal and full of rage to the surface. This drug was subtler, its influence an unreasonable calm, an emotional vulnerability that left him prone to thoughts and actions not often allowed to surface - much less given consideration. His frequent interior conversations with the Other were a result of that, which thought made him consider an additional facet of his captivity.

Vincent had no idea how long he'd been there, none. It could be only hours, or perhaps days, weeks. He had lost all sense of internal time, his circadian rhythms suspect. He was either awake or asleep, there seemed to be no in between. No sense of weariness coming upon him, nor the slow ascent to wakefulness.

**That's not true. She comes to us in the in between times: Catherine does. I remember, even if you can't. Or won't. **

_You want only what you want. You do not consider consequences. I must._

**She is mine as much as yours. It was I who killed to protect her. And you who would then cage me away while the blood was still hot on our hands. I want what is mine, what I have earned.**

_She is not Catherine!_

**I want!**

Vincent sprang from the settee and took up his pacing, making long loops through the room, head down, clawed hands clenched and muttering arguments under his breath, engaged in a silent battle. One for which there could be no winner: for he waged war with himself. He thought he'd put those times behind him, with the recovery of his son and the gift of Diana's courageous love.

_And what of Diana?_

He felt the Other's silence as both contemplated their other love, the equally precious keeper and guardian of their heart.

**She's better off without us.**

_Perhaps. But she loves us, both of us. We gave her the time and space in which to choose. And she chose us._

**Yes, but she'll leave, too. They all do, eventually.**

_So you would have us spend the remainder of our days with an illusion instead of whatever time we may be granted with what is real and beloved beyond all measure?_

**What makes you think we have a choice?**

Vincent found he had no response. And that realization frightened him down to his very core.

**...**

Diana's anger had reached a level where it had gone from hot to chillingly cold. She was rigid with it, and brittle enough to shatter at the slightest provocation. She had the sense of everything being narrowed down to tunnel vision, all the edges gone dark and nothing mattering except what was directly in front of her. And right now that was the door leading into Celina Corbin's office on the 12th floor of a building just off Wall Street. Diana waited only long enough for the secretary to open the door before she was though it and pushing it closed, taking a deep breath before turning to get her first look at the woman who had become her enemy.

Celina was on her feet behind a desk, a wall of windows at her back, allowing a panoramic view of the skyline and the gray and rainy afternoon clouds.

"Miss Bennett," she greeted Diana in a lilting voice slightly tinged with an accent, "I understand you were most anxious to see me."

After Diana did a quick scan of the room, confirming they were alone, she strode to the desk, all her attention fixed on the woman before her. Celina's raven-black hair was shorter than it had been in the photograph. But not much else had changed: she still reminded Diana of a vampiric pin-up girl, even more so in the flesh. Her shoulder-length hair was loose, framing her face, and she wore a cobalt blue sheath dress that fit her like a glove, the deep jewel tone accentuating her pale skin and large, chocolate-brown eyes. She was beautiful, blatantly seductive, and highly dangerous.

"Actually it's Detective Bennett, NYPD," Diana retorted and took a seat at one of the leather armchairs facing the desk. "But I'm sure you already know that. How about we just skip the pleasantries and get right down to business?"

Celina's response was a tiny smile, as if she found the retort amusing. Diana quashed a white-hot urge to leap over the desk and punch her right in that pretty little face. She gripped the curved armrests of the chair instead.

"Then I'm to assume you wouldn't care for a cup of coffee or perhaps some tea? Very well, then." Celina lowered herself into her chair. "So what business does the police department have with Wolfram and Hart?"

"I was just at your penthouse," Diana told her, ignoring the question. "I'm sure you know that, too. Those two guys who barely let me off of the elevator, they licensed to carry the guns they were sporting under their spiffy Italian-made suits?"

"Of course. Everyone in our organization strictly follows the letter of the law in whatever county our business may bring us to. I'd be happy to provide those licenses, if you'd like to verify them. It's a sad fact that a few of the business ventures my family is involved in come with a certain amount of risk to my personal safety, and of those who travel with me. "

"Yeah, I'll bet. So other than the occasional murder and kidnapping, what exactly do you do, Miss Corbin?"

A single wrinkle furrowed Celina's brow, right between her eyes. "Murder? Kidnapping? I'm sure I don't know what you're talking about."

"I'm just as sure you do. I didn't get past the foyer of your place, which is very nice by the way, especially if you go for the ostentatious look, but your hired guns were nice enough to let me wait there while one of them gave you a call. I stood there just long enough to confirm my hunch: he's there. I could feel him. Bet you didn't know about that, did you? Yeah, we got some kind of weird connection, Vincent and me, sorta like a link or something. I can feel him when he's close. I'm pretty sure he knew I was there, too, and would've been more than happy to leave with me if he could've gotten out of that nice, new panic room you've got him locked up in."

Celina's expression had given away nothing during Diana's proclamation, remaining bland and slightly amused – just enough so that Diana wanted to wipe the smirk off her face..

"Believe me, Detective Bennett, there is no one in my home being held hostage."

"Prove it. Let's go. Right now. You let me in and show me that room and then maybe I'll believe you."

"That kind of proof, I'm afraid, will require a search warrant. Do you have one of those? No? Well, I'm sure it won't be a problem obtaining one, will it - since you're convinced there's evidence of foul play and you're here on police business." Celina brought her gaze level with Diana's. "You did imply that, didn't you, or was that just an assumption on my part?"

They traded cold stares for a quite a while. Diana knew she couldn't win on the 'police business' side of things. Both women were well aware of the importance of Vincent's existence remaining a secret and the fact that Diana wouldn't risk his discovery by telling anyone on the force what Celina had done. And Diana didn't feel like pushing it, either. She needed a job to go back to once Vincent was safe and sound.

"Look, I don't know what kind of game you're playing here, but I want no part of it," she finally said, swallowing down as much of her anger as she could and continuing quietly, "I don't play games, Celina, not with you or anybody else, not when it comes to something this important. I know you have Vincent. Just let him go and we can forget any of this happened."

"You're the one playing games, Miss Bennett. You come here demanding to see me and then accuse me of heinous crimes for which you have no proof other than a supposition and the claim of some sort of psychic connection with this Vincent person I supposedly have as prisoner in my home. Surely you can see how absurd that sounds. Do your superiors know you're here? Perhaps I should call them and you can explain to them your reasoning."

Diana was shoved into a corner and knew it, could feel it pressing hard against her back. If she'd had a strip of fur running down her spine like Vincent, it'd have been standing straight up. A deep shiver of rage and something close to desperation rocketed through her and she leaned up in the chair and pinned Celina with hot eyes.

"We both know what's going on here. Don't make this harder than it has to be. Let him go while you still have the chance. I don't know what you think you know about him, but I can tell you one thing: he can't be tamed and he won't be your pet. _Ever._ It doesn't matter what kind of shape he's in right now or what you've done to him – eventually he's gonna come clear of it and then … well, God help you. And if he doesn't kill you, I will. I had no problem taking out Gabriel. I don't see you as any different."

Her last shot hit its target. Celina visibly flinched and said tightly: "I think you'd better leave now."

Diana wasted no time getting to her feet. "I was just about to go."

She made it halfway to the door before turning back. "You remember what I said, Celina: you can't break him. You might be able to knock him down, but he's going to get back up, guaranteed. And you don't want to be anywhere around when that happens. Don't say I didn't warn you."

**...**

Vincent came awake with a start and found himself slumped in a chair. Celina was sitting across from him smoking a cigarette and wearing an ebony, low-cut slip dress, her legs crossed at the knee, her feet bare, studying him. As he sat up he noticed the thin chain she wore around her neck and the gold and black ring hanging from it, resting between her breasts. It was of course a duplicate of the rings Gabriel and Snow had worn. He could only assume it bore the same inscription: Veritas vos Liberabit. It was the first time he'd seen her wearing it.

"Would you kill me, Vincent?"

Her question startled him and his eyes shot up to meet hers. Quicker than thought, he knew he need only spring from his chair and she would be dead in a breath's time. A neck was so easy to snap. But he remained where he was. Because in order to kill her, he would have to touch her. And then he wouldn't want her dead at all. Because at that very instant she would become Catherine. And the thought of doing any sort of harm to her was an abomination.

Even now, separated by perhaps ten feet, he could sense her: the Catherine/not Catherine conundrum that was Celina Corbin. As long as he could maintain a distance between them, he could almost think clearly; attend well enough to carry on a conversation – he could vaguely remember having had several of them with her. But all thought and reason left him the moment they touched. Then, there was only Catherine: alive, living and breathing, warm under his hands and in his arms. And in those moments he could want for nothing more.

"Are you considering my question or simply ignoring me?"

"I have no wish to harm you, Celina," he found himself telling her. The truth: a bitter one, but truth nonetheless; and not simply because of whom she could be, to him.

"Your friend at the police department seems to think differently. Diana Bennett and I had a rather interesting conversation not long ago. She was quite forceful in her concern for you." Celina exhaled a thin stream of smoke and stabbed her cigarette out in the cut crystal ashtray on the table beside her. "I like her. She has a certain aggressiveness I can't help but admire. I'd hate to see anything happen to her."

"Please." So it hadn't been a dream. He'd sensed Diana close by some time earlier, though only dimly. So much within him was the same: he'd lost all connection with Jacob, and Diana's presence, once so strong and invariable, seemed only a memory. And there was nothing of Catherine left within him, nothing. Somehow Celina had stolen that and taken it within herself. And now it served as both armor and weapon: to protect herself and to use against him. Vincent felt as if he were an empty vessel, lacking the fulfillment of the touchstones that kept him tethered to himself and to his life. Now there was only Celina and the promise and threat of what she offered him.

"Please," Vincent heard himself repeating. "Do what you will to me, but do not harm those I love. Diana needn't be a part of this."

"I'm afraid it's too late for that. She's already a part of it."

Celina unfolded from her chair and, with a dancer's grace, closed the distance between them. She stopped an arm's length away and Vincent fisted his hands, eyes slamming shut against his magnifying sense of her stolen essence. He would not allow himself to touch her. He would not.

He forced his words through a tightly clinched jaw, both tempted and tormented by her nearness. "I cannot be what you want me to be, Celina. Nor give you what you need."

"And what is it you think I need?"

He sucked in a gasping breath as her hand came to rest on the crown of his head. The shiver of recognition surged through him, renewed and razor-sharp in its clarity. So easy it would be to lean into that hand, to allow sensation to carry him away again, until everything else faded in importance.

And so he fought against it as he hadn't done before, clinging to the fragment of the sense he'd had earlier of Diana, allowing himself to hope that somehow he would gain strength from it and find a way to be free of this place. Struggling to maintain some small bit of reason, he raised his head, lifting his eyes to the woman standing before him and answered her question.

"What we all need: to be loved. But it is not something to be gained through deception … you know that. It must be given freely."

"Then do you hate me, Vincent, for what I've done?"

It was only because she stepped back and allowed him a necessary distance that he was able to give real thought to her question. And what came to his mind surprised him.

"I have no hate for you. Only … sadness."

Celina breathed what might have been a startled chuckled and stepped back even further. "Why, sad?" she asked, her hand lifting to enfold the ring on its chain around her neck.

Vincent found he couldn't meet her puzzled gaze straight on, because there was pain there, too. And the physical separation was enough that only Celina came through to him now. And he felt in her what had been there from the very beginning, and what had seared his heart.

"I know your pain, Celina. It saddens me that you feel you must be someone else in order to be loved. There are demons within you; we both know that's true. But there is also a frightened child. One who was deprived of that most elemental of needs when it is something so necessary and deserved. No child should be denied love."

Vincent watched as her perfect features shifted, reflecting her initial indignation and shock. And then, several long moments later, she looked aside as reluctant tears gathered in her eyes, confirming the truth of what he'd said.

"You don't know me," she countered defensively; pride allowing her no room to concede anything.

"I know you."

Celina's eyes shifted and he didn't avoid her gaze as he had before. He met and held it. She swallowed hard and blinked away tears. And then she approached him again. He tensed, knowing what was coming and neither willing nor able to fight it now. The pull, with its many flavors and needs, was too strong.

She dipped low, cupping his cheek, and waited for the initial rush of their reconnection to find its level before looking searchingly into his eyes. "Promise me something," she murmured and brought her mouth to his ear. Her breath stirred strands of his heavy mane as she whispered her request and then pulled away, breaking the connection. She gazed down at him, waiting, and Vincent finally found his voice.

He said to her, "I give you my word."

Bowing his head, Vincent remained very still as she moved away. And when next he looked up, she was gone and he was alone again.

But the door was open.

It had felt to Vincent as though no time had passed since he'd last looked in that direction, the sealed door confirming Celina's most recent leave-taking. But now it stood open, with only darkness showing beyond. He bolted upright in the chair and shoved to his feet, cautiously approaching the doorway. From the corner of his eye Vincent glimpsed his cloak lying over the back of a chair and grabbed it up, the motion more instinct than thought.

Sidling through the doorway as he slipped into the cloak, Vincent's eyes darted over the room beyond and found it empty. It was a bedroom, with another massive canopied bed set against one wall and furnished with the same dark and heavy antiques as his prison cell. Vincent noticed them only as deeper shadows in a lightless room as he moved toward another doorway and then down a long hall. Opening himself as far as he could, stretching with all his senses, he probed the space around him, ahead of him, behind him, keeping his back to the wall, spinning away from closed doors as he encountered them, moving soundlessly.

Sensing no other presence, he came to the end of the corridor and into a lighter shade of darkness, showing a large and open room before him, two stories high; the two outside walls that made up one corner consisting of nothing but of glass. Several long strides brought him to the windows and he glanced out only long enough to pinpoint exactly where he was. Another quick scan of the room was followed by a longer look out onto the city and the night, lights shining through the windows of the tall buildings surrounding him like the twinkling of a galaxy of stars.

He stood in a building just off Central Park. He could see the lush cover of thousands upon thousands of trees, some with leaves already beginning to change color with the coming autumn. Headlights and taillights blazed brilliantly white and red on the streets several stories below him. And traffic signals flashed; the dim sounds of that traffic, and of the city, rising up in the night air and landing like music in his ears. He felt the siren call of home and wheeled away from the wall of windows, searching for a way down and out. A door set into one of the walls led out onto a wide terrace and he pushed through it and stepped to the parapet, looking in all directions before he ruled out trying to climb: there were no handholds he could see in the smooth, unbroken surface of the building, no ledges to grasp hold of or to place his feet.

That left elevators or stairs as his other options and Vincent quickly regained the massive open room, searching for the entrance door. It was then he noticed the elevator set into the wall at the end of another, shorter, hallway and opening onto a small foyer. A private elevator, then, one which opened directly onto the penthouse. Deciding, Vincent strode to the wide double doors and depressed the button to bring the elevator up, then wheeled and pressed his back against the wall next to it. When the doors didn't immediately open and disgorge any threat, he faced them and dug his fingers into the tiny space between, prying them open, grunting with the effort. He took a quick, assessing glance around the elevator shaft and then both up and down. Seconds later the sound of the car moving up the thick metal cables came like the sweet sound of freedom.

He was crouched on top of the elevator and riding it down a short time later. Within minutes Vincent had reached the sub-basement of the building and was making his way downward, toward the Hub.

**... **

It was going on three in the morning when the phone rang, and Diana practically jumped out of her skin. She was deep in LaLa Land, sprawled on the floor of her loft, hitched up on an elbow and blearily studying the oversized blueprint of Celina's penthouse, trying to make sense of what kept going blurry on her. Snatching up the phone, she dragged her eyes away from the print and toward the inviting darkness of her bedroom.

"Yeah," she barked into the receiver. "Whadda you want?"

"Diana? Hello …? Are you there?"

It took a few beats before she could take into account the distortion a phone line could bring to the familiarity of a voice previously heard only in person, and then put a name and face to it. But when she did, Diana sat straight up, yanked the receiver far enough away to gawk at it for a second, and then brought it back to her ear.

"Jamie? Is that you?" It never occurred to her that anybody Below would be using a phone to contact her. It was disorienting as hell and Diana realized how narrow her vision was when it came to the tunnel community. There was nothing, after all, to prevent any of them from coming topside and doing what millions of other people in the city did everyday: grab a cab; scarf down a meal from one of the rolling food stands you could find on practically every street corner; go window shopping in the Village; even make a phone call. It was only Vincent who couldn't do those things.

"Yeah, it's me. Listen, I know it's late -" She broke off and Diana caught a few muffled words spoken away from the mouthpiece, and then more clearly: "- sure it's her, Mouse. 'Cause I know what she sounds like, okay? Just lemme talk!"

Diana's mind supplied a snapshot of Jamie and Mouse huddled into a phone booth somewhere, Jamie shooting him warning looks as Mouse poked at her with questions. Likely poking at the phone, too, itching to take it apart for things he might be able to use for one of his endless projects.

"Father wanted us to hike out to your place, but I figured this would be faster."

"Yeah, okay, sure. What's up?" Diana was distantly aware that her heart had begun to pound. Her palms were suddenly clammy. And her stomach was now somewhere south of her knees. Or lodged in her throat. It felt like both.

"It's Vincent. He's back."

"What?"

"Yeah, about an hour ago. He just walked into Father's study, woke him up. Damn near scared him to death: he was still shaking when I got there."

Diana was on her feet and frantically looking around. For what, she wasn't sure. Maybe shoes, a coat - or maybe her heart, which had leapt out of her chest.

"I'll be right there!"

She was a millisecond away from hanging up when she fumbled the receiver back up to her mouth, knocking herself in the chin a good one, and demanding, "Jamie, is he okay?"

There was a silence that stretched out about three seconds too long. And then, "I'm not sure. I don't think so. Father said to tell you … he said you should hurry."

Diana slammed the phone down without another word, hoping Jamie would understand, and spotted her sneakers across the room by the elevator. Grabbing her tote and a jacket off the coat tree, she stuffed her feet into shoes and then stood pounding a fist against the wall as the elevator wheezed its way up to her.

Father was waiting for her at the entrance of the Long Hall, leaning on his cane and wearing his used-to-be-a-brocade-curtain robe, his hair sticking out from his head in unruly tufts. Diana noticed a deep pillowcase wrinkle across his cheek as she gained his side and turned him back toward the Hub in one jerky motion. He fell in beside her.

"Tell me."

"He's on his feet. All his vital signs are relatively normal; although obtaining just that information was a battle in itself. Beyond that, I don't know, Diana. He looks simply awful, as if he hasn't slept since this whole ordeal began. There are deep abrasions on his wrists and … and around his neck."

They both turned at the same time and traded similar looks of horror. A part of Diana broke off within and went someplace else, someplace where Celina Corbin also conveniently happened to be. And Diana had a gun to her head.

The bitch had put a collar on him.

Diana hoped like hell Vincent had torn her to shreds.

She was practically dragging Father by this point and he finally dug in his heels and came to a standstill, swaying as she spun impatiently to face him.

Gasping for breath, Father said, "He wouldn't allow me to examine the abrasions. He was very … vocal in voicing his displeasure, when I tried."

"He snarl at you?"

"Something like that," he admitted, eyes darting aside.

"What else?" she asked as Father started moving again.

"I suspect she was drugging him: some sort of barbiturate, perhaps, though I can't know for certain. He's previously reacted badly to sedatives of any kind, but I suppose he could have been given one of the newer compounds. I haven't had the opportunity to study any of the most recent literature pertaining to their use. But the behavior he's presenting is within the range of what one might find in someone being given a steady dose of such drugs.

"On top of that he's … scattered, disconnected. He's gone into what can only be described as a state of fugue numerous times already. But not like before, not violent in any way, and not for prolonged periods. And he seems to have no idea it's even happening. One moment he's there and the next … He becomes visibly agitated when I get too close to him, so I've tried to maintain some distance, give him some space. He wants Jacob brought to him, but I've been able to dissuade of him that for the time being."

"Who's with him now?"

They were only a few feet from the entrance to Father's study and she started steering them in that direction. But Father pulled her back the other way and kept walking, his grip on her arm surprising strong. She let him lead her on past the doorway.

"No, no, he's in his chamber. Mary's with him."

_Or was with him_, Diana thought, as Mary came around the short jog just this side of Vincent's place.

"Oh, good, there you are," she greeted them. Mary gave Diana a worried smile and quick pat before turning to Father. "He demanded I leave. I tried to talk to him but he's so upset."

Diana didn't stay to catch the rest of the conversation. She sprinted around the gentle curve of the tunnel and stopped in front of the passageway into Vincent's chamber. Taking a deep breath, she stepped through.

He was standing with his back to her, staring down into Jacob's empty cradle. He was wearing his cloak, so all she could really see of him was the massive, squared-off width of his shoulders and back, the tangled waves of red-gold mane, and his hands: clenched at his sides. But it was enough to remind her she'd recovered her heart somewhere between the loft and here, because it was aching with profound relief and bone-deep love.

She made herself say it very quietly, very casually: "Hey, babe."

Vincent flinched, spun, and Diana backed up a step. He looked like death warmed over. He was the color of skim milk, so pale the short, blonde fur on his muzzle and cheeks stood out starkly. The scabs and scuff marks circling his neck were vivid streaks of red and brown above the collar of his white sweater. His eyes were sunken and dull, the sockets bruised looking. And his mouth hung open enough that both sets of fanged canines shown. He was panting softly.

His eyes, when they met hers, were haunted. And what she felt in him, what smacked her with the force of a blow, was a sadness and an anger that was almost unbearable.

"I have no need of keepers," he declared, his voice raised and on the edge of a growl.

"Absolutely," she agreed, recovering the step she'd taken back, and a few more besides. She stopped only when she saw him stiffen. Maybe four feet divided them. Her hands flexed involuntarily, yearning to reach and touch him. "You're not a kid anymore, right? Just so we got this straight: I'm not what you'd consider one of the keepers, am I?"

He didn't answer her. Or maybe his taking a single stride to close the distance between them was answer enough. And then she noticed he wasn't really looking into her eyes anymore, but just above them. Diana remembered and lifted a hand at the same time as Vincent. They collided and hers was knocked out of the way as he delicately ran the pads of his fingers over the bruised knot on her forehead and then down over her eyelid, gently drawing it shut. They trailed down her cheek and away as his head tilted and he brought his eyes level with hers again.

"You're hurt," he told her.

"I'm okay."

"No," he argued softly.

And then she lost him. He just … went away. His eyes glazed over and he stared off at something only he could see, his face slack and expressionless. It was, Diana thought with a deep shiver, like looking into the face of a dead man. She tamped down the urge to touch him, to shake him maybe, break him loose from whatever had taken hold of him and just stood waiting instead, waiting out the weird fugue he'd drifted into.

Less than a minute passed before he came back to her. And when his eyes cleared, Vincent gazed at her like he was just now seeing her. And then he gave her one of his patented looks, the one she'd named the _I don't deserve to be breathing the same air as you_ look. Seconds later Diana found her face pressed into his neck, held there by his outspread hand on the back of her head as he enveloped her in an embrace as tight as any he'd ever given.

She clung to him, trying to absorb him into her through the contact, and at the same time fighting against the instinct to push away as she rode out the powerful waves of despair/love/rage she was getting from him. Not at all filtered by his customary solemn strength, and therefore undistilled in their impact, it was akin to embracing an open blast furnace. But she wasn't about to let go.

Her nose was pressed against the healing abrasions and she unthinkingly tipped her head and began kissing him there, as if the touch of her lips could undo all his hurts. Sighing desolately she said, "Oh, Vincent, what has she done to you?"

He didn't pull away from her then – not exactly. What he did instead was grab her under the arms and pick her up off her feet, setting her back down an arm's length away. And then he went to the bed, slumped down on the edge of it, and buried his face in his hands.

Diana forced herself to stay put, turning in place to watch him, wound tightly as a spring, waiting for whatever might happen next. She took a second to slip out of her jacket and drop her tote into a chair. She had the sense of his thoughts being flung out and away from him half-formed, no one thing altogether there for him, nothing solid to hold onto. So she gave him the only solidity she dared offer: her voice and the sound of his name.

"Vincent."

His head snapped up and he locked tight on her. "How long have I been gone?"

"Three days."

"Three days," he repeated. "Is that all? And how long until …" His tongue came out to wet his bottom lip and he looked aside. "Until … Jacob's birthday?"

"Four more days, babe."

He seemed satisfied by that. And then in a way that made her think he was talking to himself and not her: "Then there's still time."

"Time for what?"

"Where is Jacob?" He abruptly came to his feet. "Where is my son? I must see him."

Diana took a chance and intercepted him as he stalked toward the doorway. She laid her hand on his arm and told him, "It's the middle of the night. Why don't you let him sleep?"

He stopped like he'd run smack into a wall and then focused on her, his brow winkled in a frown. "It is?"

"Yeah. You wake him up now, he's gonna be cranky as hell. You don't want that, do you?"

That got her a quick once-over. Vincent dipped his head and said, "No." And then: "I should sleep." But it was more a question than a statement, the way he said it.

"I think that's a great idea. I think some sleep would do you a world of good."

Nodding, he shrugged off his cloak, pivoted, and went back to the bed. Dropping down onto it, he pulled off his boots and then straightened and gave her an intense, steady look.

"You'll stay?"

"Just try to get rid of me."

That got her something like a smile, something more like him, though it didn't really reach any further than his eyes. He continued staring at her and she was beginning to think he'd gone into the twilight zone again when his expression shifted to one of impatience.

"What?" she asked.

"Are you going to help me or not?"

Yeah, definitely annoyance in his tone, as if she should've been able to read his mind and know what he was expecting of her. But she couldn't, and she didn't have the slightest idea what he wanted.

"You lost me, Vincent, sorry. Help you with what?"

He actually rolled his eyes then, and let out an irritated sigh. Diana was dumbfounded and could nothing more than lift her hands, shrugging her ignorance.

"My back and shoulders," he explained slowly, like he was talking to a small child or an adult not too quick on the up-take. "I'm still having difficulty lifting my arms above my head."

Well, of course. How stupid of her not to know that. But she hadn't known. And didn't want to ask why he was having trouble. She wasn't quite ready to hear what else had been done to him besides the visible evidence of restraint on his wrists and around his neck. And if he wanted help getting ready for bed – which seemed to be what he was expecting – she was just the woman to do it.

She walked to his wardrobe and selected a nightshirt and cotton pajama pants, very much aware of his eyes on her back, and turned to find he'd already lifted off the bed far enough to shed his patched up jeans. He was naked from the waist down, except for socks. Averting her eyes to give him the privacy she wasn't really sure he wanted, or was even expecting, she handed him the pants.

When Vincent had them pulled on, not bothering to stand up all the way to do it, she situated herself in front of him and untied the laces of his vest and helped him slip it off. And then the first of the two sweaters, the navy blue one, grabbing and stretching out the area around the arm holes so he didn't have to raise his too much to get free of it, just kind of bend them and work them loose. Then up and over his head. It was, she thought, a little like getting Jacob undressed.

This close, and disturbing the fibers of his various layers of clothing, she caught a good whiff of them. Not rank yet, but not exactly daisy fresh. That made sense, seeing as he'd been wearing them for going on four days now. Getting the second sweater off released even more of his unique scent. Vincent wasn't so fresh either, and this time the smell of him caught her off guard, concentrated as it was, and it was like being injected with an undiluted shot of his pheromones. Her stomach did a little flip and she had to lock her knees and grab hold of his wide shoulders to stay on her feet. His skin was heated beneath her hands and Diana shut her eyes against the impact of skin on skin.

They flew open seconds later as Vincent's hands found their way under the hem of her loose sweatshirt and slid up her ribcage. They came to a stop cupping the sides of her bare breasts, his thumbs beginning to trace small circles over her hardening nipples. She peered down and found him engrossed in the movements he was making under the sweatshirt.

And as much as she wanted him right then, as much as her body cried out for more of his touch, she couldn't see past how absolutely exhausted he looked. Yet at the same time, the intensity of his emotions was almost overwhelming to her, raw and powerful. She honestly didn't know how he was doing it, how he could stay upright against the force of it all.

Giving his shoulders a parting squeeze, she lifted her hands to cover and still his, telling him, "There's plenty of time for that later, Vincent. You need to sleep."

His eyes lifted, studying her, and then he demanded sharply, "What do you want?"

The incongruity of his harsh question and the solemn longing in his eyes threw her until he turned his head enough to look toward the doorway. She followed his gaze and found Father standing just within the chamber, looking squarely at them.

"Jesus!" she hissed and tried to jerk away, embarrassed, like she'd been caught with her hand in the cookie jar. But Vincent wouldn't let her go. Swiftly wrapping an arm low around her hips, he pulled her to him and pressed the side of his face against her stomach, his eyes still on his father.

"What do you want?" Vincent repeated.

Diana saw the color rise in Father's cheeks and he dropped his eyes, the tip of his cane poking at the floor.

"Pardon me, I didn't mean to… I just wanted to make sure you were all right, Vincent."

"I'm fine. We're both fine."

She felt Vincent's anger but couldn't for the life of her figure out why he was mad at Father. It certainly wasn't a result of any guilty feelings on his part. He seemed almost proud to have been caught with his hand in that same cookie jar, like he had every right to have it there. And, the thing was, he did. So she took her cues from him and tried to slough off her own sense of embarrassment.

"So it would appear," Father rejoined after an uncomfortable silence, standing a bit straighter, his feathers clearly ruffled.

Diana couldn't help but feel bad for him. He'd obviously been concerned and only wanted to check up on them, having no idea he'd be met with Vincent's irrational hostility. Or with the sight of his son's hands up her shirt.

"We're all good, Father," she found herself telling him, smoothing down Vincent's tangled mane with one hand. "Just gonna try to get some sleep here."

She was met with an appraising, not very friendly look.

"Sleep," he muttered. "Yes, I think that's the best thing for all of us. You know where to find me, should you need me."

"Leave us now," Vincent curtly ordered.

Father gave them one more stern look and turned away, heading back out to the Long Hall.

"Hey, why so hard on him?" she asked, leaning away enough to grab the nightshirt from the bed and help Vincent slip it on. "He's been worried sick about you – we all have. You should give him a break."

"He does not know," Vincent grumbled. "None of them know. Not even you."

"Know what?" she asked as she toed off her sneakers and accepted his wordless invitation, by way of an abrupt wave of his hand, to crawl into the bed behind him. It seemed prudent to leave her sweatshirt and jeans on, and Vincent didn't raise any objection.

He also didn't answer her question, just waited until she was settled and then laid down beside her, giving her his back. She scooted up close and Vincent pulled her arm around him and held it against his chest.

"I'm so glad you're home, babe," she whispered, nuzzling her face between his shoulder blades. "We'll talk about what happened tomorrow, okay?"

"Home," he echoed quietly. "Yes: tomorrow."

Diana closed her eyes but fought off sleep, too busy contemplating the events of the last hour and all the questions she had that only Vincent could answer. And feeling how great it was to have him in her arms again, even as strangely mercurial as he was being. He was here, and alive, and that was all that mattered right now. She lay awake long enough to hear him beginning to gently snore and then gave in to her exhaustion. And woke sometime later to the sound of Vincent softly calling her name.

"Yeah, babe, I'm here. What is it?" She snuggled closer and tucked her arm more tightly around him.

"Nothing," came his whispered reply. "I just … I needed to be sure."

She laid her head back down and started to drift off again. But then her eyes popped open as the impact of Vincent's response finally weaved its way through her sleep-addled brain and landed with a solid, stomach-clenching thud.

_I needed to be sure, _he'd said.

Be sure of what? That it was her that was spooned against his back, fitted to all his curves and angles? Like it could very well have been someone else? Is that what Vincent had needed to be sure of?

It was a very long time before Diana closed her eyes again.

**...**

Father's study, at the noon hour, resembled a subway station. People passed through in a steady stream of requests and reports, or paying social visits and the like. Kids and adults returning or borrowing books; folks looking for advice - one after another, it seemed to her. That meant the conversation she and Father were trying to have went at a frustrating snail's pace, bracketed by the constant interruptions. It was driving her damn near crazy, though Father was taking it all in stride. Diana had to figure it was a perfectly normal routine for him.

They sat at the big table, Diana poking listlessly at a plate of some kind of hamburger casserole Father had insisted be brought up for her as lunch. She woken up alone just before noon and had frantically made her way to the study. Father had assured her Vincent hadn't disappeared again, but had collected Jacob earlier and was now out and about in the tunnels somewhere, doing God knows what. Vincent having the baby with him calmed her frazzled nerves somewhat: she knew he wasn't apt to do anything he shouldn't be doing.

"It seems the sleep did him some good," Father was saying as Samantha skipped out of the rear entrance after delivering a math paper to be graded. "I believe most of the effects of the sedatives have worn off: he seems to be thinking more clearly than last night. And he allowed me to clean and apply ointment to the abrasions after he bathed this morning."

He took of his glasses and rubbed his eyes. "Having said that, he's still not entirely himself. I attempted to glean some sort of information from him about what's happened to him, but he evaded my questions and made clear he had no wish to discuss it with me. Were you able to find out anything?"

Diana thought about Vincent's odd statement, the one that'd kept her awake most of the rest of the night, and shoved it to the back of her mind. It wasn't the sort of tangible thing Father was looking for and the suspicions it'd raised in her weren't anything she was ready to think about, much less add to the discussion.

"No," she told him. "He wasn't tracking any too well. I didn't want to push it."

Father nodded his understanding, saying, "I know as much as I can about his physical condition, his outward appearance, Diana. But I'm curious about his state of mind. Might I ask what your … your sense of him is telling you?"

Diana shoved the plate away and braced an elbow on the table, cupping her chin in her hand. "I don't know," she began haltingly, "I'm not sure I can explain it."

"Will you try?"

She met Father's concerned look and sighed. "It's like … it's like he's been stripped down to the basics. He's still Vincent but …" She flipped a hand up in frustration. "All the subtleties are missing, all the nuances are gone. He's pissed; I know that for a fact. He's incredibly pissed. And incredibly sad. I mean, he's never exactly been Little Mary Sunshine or anything, but … I don't know."

Diana took a sip of tea, her eyes moving over the study. The first time she'd seen it, packed with tunnel folk for Jacob's Naming, she'd been close to overwhelmed. Not just by the people, but by the amount of stuff crammed into the chamber. All kinds of things, odds and ends she figured it would take years of exploring in order to uncover, and only then if she spent the rest of her days doing nothing else but. Books mostly, but that didn't begin to cover the inventory of forty years of accumulation. Father was a pack rat – most of them were, including Vincent. Nothing got thrown away unless it was absolutely useless, and even then it was with regret. The thing was, Diana was much the same way. Her loft was filled with things she couldn't seem to part with.

"Hey," she said glancing over at Father, "where'd everybody go? Nobody's been through here in the last few minutes."

"What? Oh," he responded, glancing over his shoulder at the clock on the credenza, "it's after one now. Everyone is either back at work or in class or busy with chores. We shouldn't be bothered overmuch the rest of the afternoon. Other than late in the evening, this is the quietest part of my day."

"I gotta admit, you run a pretty tight ship down here," Diana observed. "I don't know of many people who could what you do, day in and day out."

"It's not just me, Diana. Everyone in the community does their part to keep our world moving forward at a somewhat reliable pace. If not for that, I would surely be buried under the minutia within a matter of days. This … ship has several captains, and first mates. All working together for the common good. Most of the time, I'm glad to say, everything works quite well. And when it doesn't … Well, I've found that how our community deals with larger problems is usually a reflection of how well we work together to solve the mundane. So far, we've been lucky."

Diana raised her eyes to the ceiling. "Wish things went as well up there."

"I'm afraid, my dear, the world Above is a lost cause."

"Well, that's pretty cynical of you."

"Is it? Mmm, perhaps you're right." Father reached for the tea kettle and offered to fill her cup. She shook her head and he topped his off before setting the kettle back on the trivet. "I'm amazed you're not more cynical than you are, Diana, considering all you've seen in your work."

She thought about that for a minute, shifting in the chair and pulling a foot up onto the seat, her leg bending tight.

"It's hard sometimes," she admitted. "But what I do, it feels like I'm doing some good. Most of it is after the fact; I'm not out there on the streets everyday saving lives and risking my neck to do it, like a lot of other people are. But what I do: tying up the loose ends, giving the families closure, putting the bad guys away, that's important, too. Those things have to be done, because it's the right thing to do. And some of us still believe in doing the right thing. There's a lot of bad stuff going on up there, I'll grant you that, but there's also a lot of good guys trying to make things better. You can't give up hope. You do that and the whole thing goes to hell."

She looked over to find Father smiling at her.

"What? What'd I say?"

Father chuckled. "I'm sorry; I'm not laughing at you. I was just thinking how much you remind me of Vincent sometimes. You're both very strong in spirit, very stubborn when it comes to your desire to do right by as many as you can reach."

Diana smiled back at him. She was thinking there were far worse people she could be compared to. And she'd take a compliment from Father any day of the week. It almost made her feel all warm and fuzzy inside.

"Speaking of work, I can't sit here much longer. I need to go back uptop for awhile."

"Have you a case you're involved in?"

"No, I'm actually off the duty roster right now. Took some personal time when Vincent was grabbed. I knew I wouldn't be good for anything else until I got him back home. No, I just need to get up there and check out some things. Hop on the computer and pull up any reports that might have been filed last night or this morning."

Father expression was quizzical and she knew she was going to have to tell him. It was just a matter of how to put it. And since she wasn't real good at prettying things up, she just gave it to him straight.

"Look, Father, I need to find out how much shit Vincent might've stirred up getting free of Celina's place last night. If any bodies show up with the same kinds of wounds -"

"There are no bodies."

Both she and Father twisted in their chairs and watched as Vincent entered the study from the back passageway. To Diana's appraising eye, he was still way too pale and looked like he could've used a lot more sleep, but the fog that'd covered his eyes the night before seemed to have lifted. And he didn't look nearly as spooked.

He greeted them with stiff formality. "Father. Diana."

She stuck out an arm as he reached her chair. Vincent hesitated a moment before enfolding her hand in his. Squeezing lightly, he released it and then settled into the chair opposite her and Father. He folded his hands in his lap and then raised his eyes to hers, waiting for her to ask what he had to have known was the inevitable question.

_What the hell_, she thought, _I can play straight man._

So she asked, as Father slid a mug of tea in front of him, "What do you mean, no bodies?"

Vincent shrugged and said, "I killed no one last night." Then he leaned up and pulled the honey jar toward him and began methodically sweetening his tea.

When it became obvious that was all he was going to offer, Diana traded a flick of the eyes with Father and rejoined, "C'mon, you gotta give me more than that, babe. What happened?"

Vincent finished stirring his tea and set the spoon, curved side up, on the table. He blew into the mug and sipped carefully. Setting it back down, he began tracing small circles on the table with a claw tip. It was as close to fidgeting as Vincent ever came.

"I woke up," he finally offered. "Or regained consciousness. Emerged from of a fugue. Call it what you will. The door of the room I was imprisoned within was open. All was dark beyond: the whole of the place where I was. And unpeopled. There was no one but me. I simply found my way out and made my way back here."

Diana gaped at him incredulously. Vincent just looked back at her, his gaze level and his expression giving away absolutely nothing. Which was also pretty much what she was picking up from him. He was locked up tight, all his walls thrown high. Inside, Diana was busy patting at those walls, testing them, searching for a way to breach them and finding nothing. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Father open his mouth to speak and flipped up her hand to halt him.

"Wait a minute. She just let you go?"

"So it would seem."

The only thing Diana knew at that moment was that she didn't know anything. At least not when it came to the bigger picture. She had no illusions that her little chat with Celina was behind Vincent's release. She'd had enough experience to know when she had the upper hand and when she didn't, and she'd damn sure not had it with Celina. No way in hell that psycho bitch had been scared off so easily.

And to make matters worse, Diana wasn't even sure she could believe what Vincent was saying. He'd never lied to her before, and he was likely telling her nothing but the truth now - but only as much of it as he felt he needed to. She was convinced he hadn't even begun to divulge all the details she now knew he was determined to keep to himself.

Meanwhile, Father had decided it was okay to talk and was saying, "Perhaps this woman had a change of heart and -"

"Change of heart, my ass!" Diana exclaimed. "She's up to something." Locking eyes with Vincent again, she added, "You can't tell me she went to all the time and effort to plan this out, snatch you up, and then three days later just let you go. No way. I don't believe it."

"Believe whatever you like, Diana," Vincent told her quietly, "but that is what has happened."

"There's more to it than that," she said. "We both know there's something else going on here."

Vincent calmly rejoined, "What would you have me say?"

Diana was vaguely aware of Father shifting his eyes between the two of them, silent witness to a dialogue she and Vincent were having that went a whole lot deeper than words.

"How about you start by telling me what she did to you, what happened while you were locked up there."

And Vincent looked away, breaking contact as something escaped through a tiny crack in his façade and shown itself. It was only there for a second, but it was long enough. If Diana hadn't been watching him so carefully, she might have missed it. But she hadn't. And he knew it, looking back at her now with something very close to dread.

What she had seen there, what he'd tried to cover up but hadn't been able to because everything, _everything_, was right there in his eyes if you knew how to read him, was guilt. And what the hell did he have to feel guilty about anyway?

_I needed to be sure, _he'd said to her.

In that split second Diana knew two things she hadn't before: one was that she was filled was a sudden and furious sense of betrayal, so large she was shaking with it. And the second was that the rest of the conversation could absolutely not happen there. Not in front of Father. And not in a place where the all the advantage was Vincent's.

She abruptly shoved her chair back and wheeled away from the table, heading for the short staircase to the landing. She heard Father call her name but didn't bother turning around. Taking the left jog that opened onto the Long Hall, she made her way to Vincent's chamber to collect her jacket and bag.

Diana felt him coming just as she slung the handles of the tote over her shoulder and she turned toward the tube leading in. That same massive wave of rage and sadness she'd felt in him the night before preceded Vincent into the chamber now, like an empathic trumpet call announcing his return. It was scalding after the near apathy she'd encountered in the study.

He came slowly down the passage and stopped just inside the doorway. Her face felt hot and tight as she forced herself to meet his eyes. And what she found there was like looking into the Abyss: dark and bottomless, and with no regard whatsoever for petty human concerns like what was safe or prudent or polite.

"Don't do this," is what he said to her. And it almost sounded like a warning.

"Don't do what, Vincent? I can't stand here and pretend everything is like it was before. Like these last few days have just been a little detour we've taken, and now everything is back to normal. Because we both know that's not true. Something is happening here and I can't do a damn thing about it until you tell me what's going on. All of it."

He took a lurching step forward, hands clenched, and then rocked back. There was a long silence before he said anything, his eyes closing tight.

"I … I cannot …speak of it, Diana. Not now." He opened his eyes and she was met with a look of despair as caustic as his anger had been. "Please, you must try to understand."

Attempting to keep up with his lightening fast shift of emotions was like being pushed on a swing, each shove bringing her dangerously higher, knowing damn well she'd eventually pass the point of no return and that swing would complete its inevitable loop, throwing her violently to the ground. She stood in place, swaying with indecision. She didn't want to be there, but she couldn't seem to go, either. She felt nauseous, like she might throw up.

"I'm trying, babe, I really am." She felt the sudden tears and blinked them away. "But what I'm thinking … the thoughts in my head. They're making me sick. And I'm so scared right now."

Vincent lifted his arms and without thought she stepped into them, as powerless to resist his offer of comfort as the tide was to the moon's pull. She hated herself for her weakness.

He drew her close and whispered against her hair, "So am I."

Diana let herself be held until the worst of her trembling passed, fading into shorter bursts that were echoed in Vincent - that moved through them both. Then she pulled away and draped her jacket over her arm with careful precision. When she had it just so, she reached out and briefly cupped his cheek.

"When you're ready to tell me, Vincent, when you want to talk, you know where to find me." Diana brushed past him and started the long walk home.

© Lydia Bower 2012


	5. Book Five: Never Diminish

5. Never Diminish

"_Whatever I've lost along the way, I'll find again."_

In many ways the shame and remorse he felt after killing was far easier to reconcile than what he struggled with now. Vincent came to this realization as he journeyed ever deeper below the inhabited sections of the tunnels and closer to where he'd find Narcissa and perhaps some answers.

In killing, his actions at least had a greater purpose than himself: the protection of his loved ones and his home. But he could claim no rationale other than the fulfillment of his own selfish desires for what he'd done this time - and what he'd allowed to happen.

His weaknesses were tearing at the very fabric of the new life he'd been building since Catherine's death, allowing doubt and distrust to eat away at the fragile threads holding it together. His actions had been a betrayal of all he believed in, and everything he held most dear. He had shown himself to be a coward who couldn't face the consequences of what he'd done; who had instead turned his inward poison outward and toward Diana, going so far as to order her not to question him, to simply accept what she had seen in him - without explanation or cause.

He'd had no true sense of her yesterday afternoon, when he had driven her away from his chamber with his reticence; nothing beyond her words and stricken expression, the desolation in her eyes. He'd been too concerned with his own feelings, his empathy numbed almost to the point of not being. He had found himself grateful for that small reprieve then. That he'd even considered it as such now shamed him.

Father was certain his peculiar moods since his return were an after-effect of the drugs he'd been given, but Vincent knew the truth - though he'd shied away from sharing it. He'd shared very little with him, despite Father's gentle attempts to earn Vincent's confidence. Instead he'd simply listened with neutral attention to Father's various suppositions this morning and then, excusing himself from the study and the company, found himself seeking Narcissa's counsel.

This downward spiral in which he was caught had begun with magic, not medicine; belief, not fact; the heart, which knew no logic, not the mind, which dealt in reason. For some things Father had no answers, but Narcissa might.

_There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy_, Vincent's mind supplied, as he gained the final stretch of tunnel that led to Narcissa's warren of chambers.

He pushed through the strings of beads hung across the doorway, the numerous tiny collisions of shell, glass and wood making their own sort of music. Softly calling the old woman's name, Vincent ventured no further then halfway into the small antechamber. His sense of Narcissa's home had always seemed to him as that of a church: a place that required one's respect and a certain solemnity. Vincent knew she was within these chambers, but manners dictated he wait for her invitation to go any further.

"Who is that now, come to see this old woman?" Narcissa asked as she peered around the wall of an inner chamber and toward him, her eyes milky with cataracts. A colorful scarf wrapped her head, and in her hands she held a wooden bowl Vincent could see was filled with what appeared to be herbs.

"It is I, Vincent. How are you, Narcissa?"

"Vincent!" she crowed happily. "So far from home, child! What brings you all the way down here?" As if she were still fully sighted instead of almost completely blind, she casually set the bowl down on a table next to her and moved unerringly toward him.

Vincent found himself taking a step back, though he couldn't say why. She was certainly no threat to him. But the thought of being close enough to touch was unsettling. He said to her, "I've come to seek your help. And your knowledge."

"And what could a crazy old woman like me tell you?"

Narcissa kept coming, until Vincent found his back against the rough cut of the doorway. And up came her hand to land on his arm. She jerked it immediately away, backing up as her eyes grew wide.

"What is this?" she asked in alarm. "What's been done to you?"

"That is why I'm here," he explained, tamping down the instinct to flee. He'd come to find answers and that meant staying until he had them, no matter how difficult they might be to hear. "What can you tell me, Narcissa, what is it you've felt?"

"A dark spirit … it surrounds you, tries to wrap itself around your heart. Oh," she murmured, wringing her hands, "it means to take the good, the light inside you, and make it its own, Vincent."

"I fear it already has," he whispered roughly. "Please, can you help me?"

After a moment's hesitation she grabbed the sleeve of his cloak and towed him toward a small table. "Sit, child. Narcissa will see what can be done."

She left him to pull out a chair at a table littered with bunches of bound and dried herbs, small dishes of shells and beads and feathers of various sizes and colors, and made her way across the room to a sideboard. Once there, she collected several items before joining him. Taking the chair opposite, Narcissa lined up a half dozen small apothecary jars, uncorked them, and then lit a squat candle sitting in the base of a thick wire frame that supported a copper bowl the size of a teacup.

One by one, she added a pinch of the contents of each jar to the bowl, muttering what Vincent took to be incantations in a low but musical language all her own. Soon the heat of the candle flame warmed the contents of the bowl and its aroma began to waft through the chamber, carried on currents of air too gentle to be felt. The odor was not unpleasant, and was both spicy and astringent.

After a short time Narcissa ordered, "Give me your hand, child."

Vincent obediently offered his right across the table and Narcissa waved it away. "No, not the one that protects. The one that puts thoughts to paper: the heart's hand."

Vincent was taken aback by her words. Though it was possible Narcissa might know he was left-handed, he didn't know how she knew his right was his striking hand, the one that invariably brought the killing blow.

"Well, what are you waiting for? Do you want to know or not?"

Frowning, Vincent delivered to her his left hand. Narcissa held it open, resting in hers, and began rubbing small circles in the center of his palm with her thumb.

"Close your eyes, Vincent, and open your mind. Let me see what has been taken from you."

He had to force his eyes to stay closed as Narcissa's words brought to the surface of his mind a dim kinesthetic memory: thrashing and jerking against restraints, dizzy and breathless; his blood pulsing through veins filled with ice and then, equally as painful, with fire. A sense of his heart being wrenched from his chest. A horrible feeling of loss.

_Let go, bestia! Open your heart! _

Vincent heard the words of Celina's companion as if they were just now being screamed in his ear. His eyes flew open and he sucked in a hissing breath as a sharp pain sliced across the tip of his index finger. He tried to pull his hand away but Narcissa held to it with a strength he'd not thought possible. He saw the small knife in her other hand and the blood that welled up from where she'd cut him. Tugging his hand toward the bowl, Narcissa turned it and squeezed his finger. His blood gathered like a crimson teardrop and then fell into the bowl. Once, twice, and then a third time.

Narcissa released his hand and uttered more incomprehensible words as she again added small amounts of the contents of two of the jars into the bowl. Just then the candle flared, its flame licking upward and surrounding the small dish.

Vincent was suddenly overwhelmed by the scent of his warm blood mixing with the powders in the copper bowl and made even hotter by the flame's heat. And another, earlier, demand made of him echoed in his ears like a shout.

_Oh, Vincent, imagine the taste of it! Like copper and fire on your tongue! _

Paracelsus, wearing Father's face and taunting Vincent with words that'd led to his death: unleashing the Other to gut him from chest to groin. Merely for speaking words; yet they'd contained the deepest betrayal of everything Vincent had believed about Father – and about himself. An attack like no other. Vincent jerked and shot to his feet, staring down at Narcissa in fear.

"What have you done?" His question left him as no more than a whisper.

Narcissa lifted her blinded eyes to his. "It is not me who's done this to you, child - but I recognize the darkness behind this attack. Hear my words, Vincent: nothing was taken from you that you did not allow."

That's not true," he argued.

"Oh, yes, it is. Your pain, your grief, made you weak. And makes you vulnerable still. But there is hope for you. What you seek, what has been taken from you, can be found again. All is not lost."

"How, Narcissa? If you know, you must tell me. Please."

"The way is not for me to say. It is a path you must discover on your own, Vincent, a heart's journey that must be taken."

"I don't understand."

Narcissa impatiently snapped her tongue against the roof of her mouth. "Open your mind to the possibilities. All of them. Do you truly believe such a boundless thing can be grasped within a fist? That it can be measured and judged to be not enough, or too much, or just right? The answer is within you, Vincent. Do not turn away from it simply because you refuse to see its scope."

Narcissa shooed him away then, insisting she had nothing more to say and needed to be back to her work. More confused than when he'd arrived, Vincent cradled his stinging finger to his chest and left her chambers. He stood for an unmeasured time in the tunnel outside, replaying her cryptic advice and shaking his head in frustration.

Finally he turned and began the long journey home, dreading the coming evening and his next destination. One that would take him from the tunnels and to the world Above. Because despite having gotten no real answers from Narcissa, no plausible explanations that might cushion the blow of his confession, the time had come to face Diana and tell her all that she deserved to know.

**...**

She started on a fresh bottle of whisky and Etta James at the same time. Halfway into her first tumbler, _I'd Rather Go Blind _came up in the rotation and she made it through most of the song before she was fighting back tears. Draining her glass, she changed CDs and cranked the volume. Stretched out on the couch, freshly-filled tumbler balanced on her chest and The Pogues beating at her ears, Diana opened her eyes and found that Vincent had come.

She managed to not slop all the whiskey on her shirt as she jerked upright, just a splash or two as it tidal waved in the glass. Diana reached behind her to set it on the table there and scrubbed a hand across the wet spot on her chest. Terrible waste of good whiskey, that was.

She hadn't heard him come in: the music was too loud. He was standing just this side of the hallway to the roof stairs, the hood of his cloak still up. That, and the single set of lights burning dimly in the loft, the ones above the kitchen island, shadowed his face so she could see nothing but the glint of his eyes as they connected with hers and then slid away.

Silently, she swung her legs off the couch and pushed to her feet. Made cautious with alcohol, she took her time getting to the bookcase and shutting down the stereo. When she turned back around and thumbed on the desk light, Vincent had pulled back his hood and was looking in the general direction of the fireplace. He was standing as eerily still as he ever did, but as she watched she caught sight of a deep shudder running through him. And that scared her.

Diana knew she was in no way ready for this. Confrontations at work were one thing. She could get in there and scrap with the best of them. The emotional ones, though, where her personal feelings were involved … well, she tended to shut down. Every guy she'd ever been with could vouch for that: from Mark all the way back to Brian Dunlop, who'd been her date at junior prom and had ended the evening with a split lip instead of getting to second base with her, like he'd so foolishly counted on.

All the way up until Vincent, erecting walls around her heart had been her MO. But with him, it was different – everything was different with Vincent. Including knowing she could never afford to shut down on him that way. Because what she wouldn't say, he'd be able to sense in her anyway. There was nowhere to hide.

That was why she'd never been anything but honest with him. And he with her, as far as she knew and could sense, what with her empathy being nowhere near as finely-tuned as Vincent's. She'd known from the beginning it was smarter to just say what she was thinking than to take the chance he'd misinterpret what he picked up from her. There was no room for misunderstanding between them.

They'd butted heads more than a few times in the last nine months because of that; both stubborn as mules and tough to budge once they had their minds made up about something. But those times, who each of them were, and who they were together, had never been in question. All of that had changed now. She still didn't know why, but she knew it was so.

Diana realized she was waiting for Vincent to greet her as he always did. Just the single word: her name. And when it didn't come, it knocked her even further off-kilter. She knew if she didn't say something they could very well stand there all night without a word being spoken. Neither of them was very good at small talk.

She stood at her spot at the desk for a little while longer, studying him. With his shaggy head dipped low, copper-gold mane shielding his unique features the way the hood had. Arms loose at his sides, clawed hands flat against the cloak. Massive and dressed in rag-tag fringed and tied layers of tunnel garb, solemn and still. And altogether disarming. Utterly remarkable.

Her unicorn man.

Stronger even than her sadness and dread, more real to her than the memory of the betrayal she'd read in his eyes less than two days ago, was the love she couldn't help but feel. Diana couldn't stand against the truth of that. Not from the very beginning, and not now.

So she crossed the room and slid her fingers under his hand as she turned and came to a stop in front of him. Vincent pulled in a long breath, clasping her hand. Then he sighed it out slowly as Diana waited for him to lift his head. When he did, his eyes still wearing that same haunted look as the last time she'd seen him, she steadied a hand on his chest and rose up on her toes to kiss him. Pulling back, Diana found him regarding her somberly.

"I'm glad you came," she told him.

"Glad … and troubled," he murmured, shifting his weight and cautiously drawing her closer. She slid into his arms and settled her cheek on his shoulder.

"Yeah, that too," she admitted. "But whatever it is, Vincent, we'll get through it."

His head came to rest against hers. "You say that now …"

"Shut up," she told him, "just shut up and hug me for a minute, okay?"

He sighed against her hair. "For as long as you'd like."

Diana was content to stay that way for awhile. At least until it dawned on her that a part of her was waiting for something else, something more. Something like the kind of deep reconnection they'd experienced in the Commons just a few short days ago – though it seemed as if months had passed since then. And every second that ticked by now without that reconnection only served to make her more anxious.

Her sense of him was dim, even this close, like her ability to perceive him had been dialed down to barely two on a scale of ten. It wasn't Vincent doing it though: when he was purposely blocking her he went, and felt, very still within – and this wasn't like that. This was like trying to focus on details while viewing him from far away and through fogged-up glass: his shape was there, but none of the features.

Diana broke the embrace that'd become unsettling and resumed a spot on the edge of the couch. Smoothing back her hair with both hands, she looked up at him. "So what's happened to you?"

There was a medium silence. Then: "I'm not sure. I have ideas but …"

"I'm listening."

Several more seconds passed before Vincent said, "I know you to be imaginative in your work ... to consider all possibilities, no matter how implausible. I need you to do that now, Diana. I need you to hear me out. Then I will answer your questions … as best I can. Will you do that?"

She sketched a quick cross over her heart in acceptance and gave him her quiet attention as he began to tell his story.

Ten minutes later found him sitting in the arm chair, gone quiet, and Diana on her feet, making long loops from the kitchen wall of windows to the doorway of the bedroom. She always thought better on her feet. Coming to a sudden halt, she braced locked arms against the back of the couch and pinned him with a look.

"Magic," she burst out, repeating a word Vincent had used more than once. "So you're convinced Celina and this other woman – Arianna? – did some kind of hoodoo, voodoo magic on you?"

"There is no other explanation – none that makes sense. Though it might not serve my cause to tell you this, I sought out Narcissa earlier today. She … confirmed my fears."

"You were being drugged, Vincent. You said so yourself. Father said so. You get the right cocktail into somebody and they'll experience all kinds of crazy shit and believe every bit of it's true. I've seen it."

"No," he insisted. "The drugs didn't come until afterward and then only to keep me passive. This … enchantment, it's real. It is not just of the mind, Diana, but of the body as well. And of the spirit."

"That's the part I'm not real clear on. You say Celina took something from you during this… thing she did. But you can't say what, exactly."

"No. I can only tell you I'm changed for the lack of it."

Vincent shot to his feet and did a little pacing of his own, though in smaller loops and with a much larger presence. He started another wheeling turn as she watched and stopped halfway through it, so that he ended up standing in profile. And then his head swung around and he shot her a piercing look.

"Do you know how little sense of you I have at this moment? I can barely feel you: here," he said, poking his chest with an outspread hand and turning fully to face her, his eyes gone stormy-gray with misery. "To be so close and yet not … know you. As I am so accustomed – as has become essential to me as breathing. And with Jacob … the same. It distresses him that he cannot feel our reciprocal bond as he used to. And my concern for his fears, however dimly felt, only distresses him more. It is not wise to be with him now. I cannot offer him the peace he deserves."

Diana thought the two of them could use a little of that peace, too. Vincent was clearly agitated, and though she was having a hard time swallowing any talk of magic, he'd obviously experienced some sort of attack on his psyche while in Celina's grasp. He didn't have to convince her of that: she could see it, feel it, for herself. And that was where she was going to have to start. They didn't have to agree on the method of Celina's attack, only its outcome, the affect it was having on Vincent now.

She made herself go back to the couch and sit down; hoping that being more settled herself might rub off on him. He was apparently finished pacing for now, but still strung too tight to sit down.

"I'm not as I was, Diana. Look at me," he pleaded, arms lifting and then dropping just as suddenly. "_Feel_ me, as best you can. Am I as I was before … or am I now … changed?"

Diana thought carefully about her answer. The last thing she wanted to do was freak him even more. "You feel … I don't know," she started and then flipped up her hands, frustrated by the inadequacies of words, "… like you been stripped down the bone. There's no middle ground. I can pick up on you, but only when it's something extreme."

"Yes!" he declared. "The extremes. There is no buffer, no longer a filter through which all within passes. I cannot seem to keep hold of myself, or to my discipline. Feelings come upon me so suddenly and I have no defenses. Dark rages. Blinding grief. Desires. I have done things –"

Vincent broke off and shot her a wary glance before his eyes slid away. He dropped heavily into the armchair, ending with his head bent and his hands shoved between his knees.

Then quietly enough that she had to lean up to hear him: "There is more that you should know, Diana."

"I kind of figured that," she said, proud of the way she kept her voice level, while inside she'd already begun to free-fall. Diana knew with absolute clarity that things were about to get very ugly. She considered for half a second telling him to just forget it, that she didn't need to know anymore. But she'd be damned if she'd stick her head in the sand just because things were starting to get tough. Damned if she'd give him any reason to believe it was best to keep his silence instead of sharing all of it with her.

"So what is, Vincent? Just tell me," she encouraged.

He looked at her long and hard, his mouth pulled tight. And then glancing aside said, "I can never convey to you – to anyone – how devastating the loss of my bond with Catherine was. Before, there wasn't a moment that passed I wasn't aware of … the ebb and flow of her emotions. They became mine … a part of me. Our connection was as my heartbeat: invariable and necessary. And when that bond was gone … it was as though my very being had been ripped from me. I had no real sense of myself, having become so accustomed to knowing who I was through her … and through our connection.

"Yet great as that loss was to bear, there was still Catherine. She was my one constant, there for me as I regained strength and forged fresh connections and a new sense of myself. When she died I believed her forever lost to me. But she was not wholly gone. If I was still enough, and peaceful enough, I could feel her yet. The living spirit of Catherine resided … in me. If not for that, and your courage … your love and generosity, I surely would have perished. Consumed by rage and grief, I would have died of it and left my son an orphan, to be raised by a madman. Do you have any least idea, Diana, of all you've done for me?"

She shrugged and almost let fly some stupid comment like, _it_ was nothing,_ _before she viciously gagged the impulse. Because it hadn't been nothing - and both of them knew it. That wasn't what gave her pause now. It was what he'd said and the way he'd said it, looking back at her with unreadable eyes. It was the feeling it set off in her: like being given a commendation with one hand and a demotion with the other. Or going out on what you thought was a great first date, only to have the guy never call you again. Or, worse than that, a mind-blowing bout of bedroom aerobics with someone you'd really started to care about and could tolerate having around for awhile, only to find out later that it was a farewell.

So what she said instead was, "Why are you telling me all this, Vincent?"

His eyes drifted away and she sat rigid until they met hers again - but only at an angle.

"It is not just my ability to fully sense you … Jacob … that was taken from me. What I had … of Catherine," he sighed, "is also gone. But … it is not."

"What does that mean?"

"Somehow … somehow Celina was able to absorb … to draw within herself … the spirit of Catherine that lived in me. Make it her own. Use it as a weapon against me."

"Use it how?" she found herself asking. Never mind that what he'd just said made no sense and on top of it was flat-out impossible. She could argue that later. Right now she was only interested in asking the questions that'd finally allow the blade poised over her neck to fall. Because she could feel it - like it was a solid, sharp thing, and so very real - and only wanted to get it over with.

Vincent was looking squarely at her now, and she knew him well enough to know he was either terrified or furious. Either of those feelings was guaranteed to elicit that kind of tightly focused look from him. As if he had no choice but to meet the visceral stuff head-on and full-tilt. That he was still here meant he'd chosen to stay and fight it out. But that didn't mean he also wasn't just about scared to death. Diana knew she was.

He waited a couple seconds, until he was sure he had her attention. And he told her, "Celina feels … to me … like Catherine. She _is_ Catherine. My sense of her -"

He was back on his feet. Not pacing this time, just moving far enough away that he could turn his back to her. The silence stretched and Diana felt like she should be filling it, but found she had nothing to say. What exactly was the proper response to a declaration like that?

_Have you lost your freaking mind?_ seemed a bit hostile, especially considering that might be exactly what'd happened to him. So Diana fell back on the investigator's approach: get the details.

"Explain that to me," she said, "clearly as you can. What do mean, she feels like Catherine?"

Vincent swung around and she read a hint of frustration in his face. Choosing to ignore it, she prodded him further. "You mean when you look at Celina, you see Catherine? Your sense of her is the same? You have a bond with her, what? Give me something to work with here, Vincent. Something halfway concrete."

He grunted and took a step toward her. "There is a bond … of sorts," he slowly began. "A connection. I can feel Catherine … within her. But she appears only as herself, not as Catherine. And when there is … distance … there is only Celina. Only the depth … the largeness of her pain. But when she is close, when -"

Vincent abruptly stepped to the couch and dropped down on one knee in front of her. There was nowhere to look but at him. And into features that'd grown infinitely sad.

"When we … touch … she is Catherine. Every sense tells me it is so. And she is … found."

Diana watched as tears welled in his eyes and he looked away, finally releasing her from the penetrating gaze that'd stung just as deeply as his words. Somehow she managed to form sentences and get them out of her mouth, though they came out strangled and low.

"So exactly how much touching was going on? And how much of it was on your end?"

She gave him three seconds to answer. She figured that was long enough. He didn't say a word, just studied the floor.

"Jesus Christ, Vincent!" Diana pushed off the couch and shoved by him. He dropped an outspread hand to the rug to steady himself, looking like a linebacker about to spring up and tackle her, turning his head to watch as she stormed toward the desk, her hands steepled over her mouth.

_I needed to be sure_, he'd said.

She hugged herself hard and wheeled around to face him.

"Did you fuck her?"

"No!" Vincent shot back, wincing at the profanity.

"And I'm just supposed to believe that? Why not?"

He twisted a little more, dropping from the awkward crouch to his knees, sitting back on his heels, looking up at her with somber eyes.

"Because," he explained quietly, "she … is Catherine."

Of course.

Though it went without saying that anyone else would have found Vincent's reasoning completely nonsensical, she didn't. And he somehow knew she would understand exactly what he meant. Because if it was at all possible – and Diana wasn't ready to tackle that part yet – and physical contact with Celina somehow triggered these hallucinations of his, it made perfect sense.

Because despite his desires and the overwhelmingly powerful, instinctual urge that sex was, despite his all-encompassing love for Catherine, it was the one expression of that love he hadn't allowed himself to give her. He'd had no choice in the matter in that dark cave almost two years ago; no way to decide for himself if Catherine's unique sort of first aid would cure him - or kill her instead.

And he still wasn't certain. Still had no memory of what had happened between them. Only that they'd both somehow survived it and had made a baby in the process. And that it had cost him his bond with her. No way would he risk a shot at a second chance - not when, in his mind, there were still so many unknowns.

Vincent was nothing if not consistent in his fierce need to protect the people in his life from what he perceived as their most dangerous threat: himself.

It occurred to Diana it was nothing short of a miracle she'd somehow been judged exempt from his stalwart and unbending self-discipline. Which started her wondering why that was: why her and no one else, not even Catherine. And then she realized Vincent had said something else and she'd missed it, too busy wrapping her head around what he'd handed her.

"What?"

He repeated himself: "And she is not you."

Sweet sentiment, even if it wasn't completely unexpected, considering the circumstances.

Diana wasn't going to let him off the hook that easy.

"So, what, a little foreplay was okay, but you drew the line at outright sex? That was very vigilant of you."

Finally something other than misery flashed across his face. Giving her a look she read as exasperation, Vincent came to his feet in a single fluid motion.

"I held her only as I would've Catherine. Touched her, comforted her … as I would Catherine."

"And spent at least one night in the same bed with her," Diana retorted, remembering how she'd been spooned against his back the night he'd come home, when he'd woken up and had clearly been unsure who was curled up behind him.

"Wait," she barked as Vincent opened his mouth to respond. "You _comforted_ her? Why the hell did she need comforting? She wasn't the one shot up with tranquilizers, kidnapped, and then drugged half-stupid. Not to mention the collar she put around your neck. A goddam collar, Vincent!"

Diana was absolutely livid, utterly appalled. Not for herself but for him - because he wasn't. And he damn sure should've been.

"You don't understand."

"You're goddam right, I don't! So why don't you explain it to me?"

They faced each other from a distance of a few short feet, but it felt to Diana like a million miles. She was hurt and angry and scared. And what she could pick up from Vincent, past the miasma of his unfocused guilt, was the sharper sense of his growing frustration with her. And that was just too damn bad.

"Well?" she prompted.

"You must try to understand," he said after a small silence. "Always, layered with my sense of Catherine, there was Celina." Vincent lifted his eyes to the ceiling and pushed out a short breath. "She is in such torment, Diana, in ways that go deeper than any words can explain. It is something one can only feel. And in feeling it, one cannot discount it or the desire to lessen it, to ease it in some way. It is such a sadness … and such rage. I cannot explain beyond that."

He shut his mouth and delivered her an imploring look.

As she held Vincent's gaze, protectively tucked up inside herself about as tightly she could manage, it dawned on Diana just how insidious Celina's plan had been. She'd made the mistake of thinking she'd heard the worst of it and now it was just a matter of figuring out a way to get past it and back to something resembling normal. But over the course of a few seconds she knew it wasn't nearly over with – not by a long shot.

"She really did a number on you, didn't she," Diana muttered. "Figured out exactly where your buttons are and pushed every single one of them." She bit off a syllable of bitter laughter. "Look, I know you're firmly entrenched in this whole self-sacrifice thing. I know it's a part of you, what you do to make up for what you think you lack. And maybe as penance for things you've done you'd rather forget. I know it's all part of the empathy, too: wanting to make things right for people, make them better. I get that, I do, Vincent. But you have the draw the line somewhere. And I don't understand why you can't see that - past all this hocus-pocus.

"This woman violently kidnapped you. She's responsible for the deaths of at least two people that we know of - one who was a friend of yours. She's messed with your head so bad she has you convinced of something that's simply not true. She's not Catherine, never will be - no matter how it feels right now. And I don't care how miserable and sad she is. She's still a dangerous killer who'll do whatever she can to make sure she gets what she wants. And what she wants is you. So tell me, babe, tell me the rest of it. Why did she let you go?"

The look she got back twisted her heart in its clawed fist. It was resolute and nakedly honest and as direct as any he'd ever given her.

"Because she knew I'd return. I must."

Diana knew in an instant and with absolute conviction she wouldn't be able to argue Vincent out of doing anything right now – not when it came to Celina. Diana wouldn't be trying to persuade him against her, but against the ghost of Catherine. And she didn't have a chance in hell of winning that battle. She couldn't fight that ghost. She'd be a fool to try.

Because even now, a year and a half after the bond had been irrevocably severed, Vincent had no choice. No matter what his head might be telling him, his senses would recognize and remember only Catherine. And the love he had for her, even beyond her death, was a drug stronger than any Celina might've given him.

"So … when do you go back?" she forced herself to ask.

Something that looked oddly like disappointment flickered in his eyes and then disappeared as he lowered them.

"Two days time."

"The anniversary," Diana nodded slowly. "Should've known. And then what, Vincent, what comes after that?"

"I don't know."

"You don't know? What, that's not one of the things you talked about in between rounds of comforting? Didn't discuss how this was all going to work out? Like whether you're going to move into the penthouse or she comes Below - maybe you just trade off." Diana tasted the bitterness of the words as they left her mouth, spitting them out even as she knew in a little corner of her mind she absolutely shouldn't be saying any of them. But the clarity of her despair was stronger than anything else. "Better yet, Celina can put you on that private jet of hers and take you back to Europe. I'm sure she could set you up in some castle somewhere, no neighbors around for miles. Hell, you could stroll around outside in daylight to your heart's content and never have to worry about being seen. I'm sure you'd love that.

"And what about the baby, huh? The son you fought so hard to bring home. Gonna take Jacob with you or are you planning on leaving him behind, too? I'm sure he'll be okay. After all, Father will take good care of him and there's always Brooke; she loves him like he's her own. For that matter, so do I. So, what, none of that came up in conversation, Vincent? Did you two just decide you're gonna live happily ever after and the rest'll take care of itself?"

"Enough!"

In the second she spent being startled by his outburst, his demand more a roar more than a shout, Vincent closed the distance between them and was right up in her face, his hands locked tight around her upper arms. Diana stared up at him, wide-eyed and wary.

"Do you think this is what I want?" he growled in her face. "Do you truly believe I take any pleasure in this?"

He released his hold on her and spun away, stalking toward the kitchen and then wheeling back around. He paused there for a heartbeat or two and then, fists clenched tightly at his sides, eyes feverishly bright, he advanced on her.

She couldn't help it: reacting to what she saw in his face, Diana retreated a step, finding any further escape blocked by the desk. Her reaction wasn't from fear, not exactly. The impulse was the same as when he'd come up off her bed after the mess with the _Compass Rose_, burning up with fever and delirious, not knowing where the hell he was and not really caring, just wanting to get _away_. And Diana knowing she had to get clear of his path, because if she didn't he wouldn't bother going around her, he'd go right through her instead. Nothing personal about it on his end, just the way Vincent was when he was zoned out and operating on nothing but primal instinct and need.

His advance on her called up that same urge for caution, but with the fear tempered - because she knew him now - into something more like healthy respect. The sort of thing that would keep you from poking a sharp stick at a cranky lion. All of which was perfectly rational to her.

But Vincent saw her recoil. And it was as if he'd caught a hard-swung bat right to the stomach. He sagged like somebody had let all his air out and staggered back. Features twisting with regret, he shook himself into something like composed and then engaged her with eyes gone dark and fathomless.

"Don't you know, Diana?" He lifted an open hand and let it fall, quietly imploring, "You are _everything_ … to me. I beg you … don't turn away from me now. Help me ... help me to be free of her."

His plea echoing in her ears like a thunderclap, heart drumming in her chest, it didn't matter a lick to Diana if he was referring to Celina or Catherine. Maybe it was both. All that counted was that Vincent was powerless to resist either of them. And that she was the one he'd come to for help. Risking her considerable anger, knowing what he was walking into, he'd come anyway. And that meant something. It meant a lot.

As his declaration replayed in her head, Diana added her own as counter-point: _My God, he really does love me._ It was shocking to her: the fact that it'd taken so long, and something like this, for it to finally sink in and become fact instead of just a possibility. A hot rush of shame surged through her at the same time. She'd jumped to the worst possible conclusion without bothering to get all the facts first, stupidly assuming Vincent had decided she wasn't what he wanted after all and had chosen Celina instead.

Which was about as likely a thing as Diana sprouting goddam wings and a third eye. Which, if she knew the man half as well as she liked to think she did, she should've known was a thoroughly ridiculous idea to begin with.

Because the truth was that Vincent was more horrified by what had happened than she was. Probably times a thousand, because the attack had been against him. He was the one bearing the weight of it: the shame and sense of betrayal for something that'd been done to him and against his will, and absolutely not something he'd chosen. And she'd been too wrapped up in her own doubts and fears to even begin to consider what he might be going through. Too selfish to take the time to really think about how obscene a situation he was faced with. How it must, even this very minute, be slowly eating away at whatever was most precious about his memories of Catherine.

Diana was overcome by a sweeping sense of awful embarrassment as she realized she'd likely never get to the end of all there was to learn about this man. She thought she knew him, when in fact she knew nothing at all. Absolutely nothing. Despite her proclamation to Father just days ago that she could never forget Vincent's differences, her behavior tonight had proven her a liar. It struck her anew just how fundamentally different he was - from anyone she'd ever known or ever would. And that same man was standing before her now proclaiming that she was everything to him. Diana felt about as worthy of his love as a speck of dirt.

"Oh, Vincent," she whispered through sudden tears, "I'm so sorry."

They came together in an instant, rocked with the force of it and knocked off-balance. Diana clutched him, one arm wrapped as far around him as it would go, the other tight around his neck. She felt him tremble against her and said, "Just tell me. Tell me what to do. Anything, babe, you know that."

Vincent began muttering into her hair and she only caught a few words, here and there.

"- don't know. I cannot … the pull is too great… what to do …"

"Shhh, it's okay," she insisted, her fingers tunneling through his thick mane to come to a rest on the back of his neck, her lips against his cheek. "We'll get you free of this, we will."

"How?"

His question came out strangled and Vincent started pulling in deep, racking breaths, laying his forehead against her shoulder. She felt him begin to shudder and realized he was crying silently, and so overcome by despair that the weight of it, when it finally penetrated and fully hit her, would've knocked her flat if she hadn't been hanging on to him.

Diana cried with him for awhile, needing the release as badly as Vincent. And after her tears tapered off and she held him as his weeping slowly wound down, somewhere deep inside her, in a place that stayed mostly locked up and ignored, a bright cinder of rage flared and began to burn coldly. As she swiped away the moisture from his cheeks and helped him slip out of his cloak, Diana knew exactly what it would take to end the nightmare Vincent was living through.

Celina Corbin had to die.

**...**

They found each other during the deepest part of the night, reaching out in sleep. A blind tug here, a searching pat there: confirming presence and warm skin. Wrapped in dreams oddly peaceful, pats became caresses, lingering and acute. Tugs became contact and deepened, long limbs twining and weights shifting.

So instinctual and thoughtless were their motions that by the time Diana came fully awake, Vincent was already inside her, rocking slowly and so deep, weight braced on his forearms above her, his hips pinning hers to the bed.

Diana arched against him, wrapping herself around him, moaning softly as he shifted, his hands moving to cup her face. She opened her eyes to the twilight of her dimly lit bedroom and the sight of his sleepy, gentle gaze focused on her.

He dipped his head and began kissing her: her forehead, cheeks, the tip of her nose, her chin. Pulling back after each one, just enough to be able to lock eyes with her again. Moving smoothly and rhythmically within her the whole time: languid and as poignant as sweet, sad music. She clung to him as each thrust of his hips wove glittering threads of light and heat within her and then pulled them ever tauter, until her back bowed from the driving force of her need and she cried out to him.

Dipping one last time, Vincent brought his mouth to hers and whispered against her lips, "My Diana. My life. I love you so."

His mouth claimed hers and the world shattered around her.

Later, as sleep descended on them again, as seamless as their waking had been, Diana's last thought was,_ I get it now: I know why he killed for her. Because loving someone like this, being loved like this, is worth risking everything to protect._

**...**

She stood in a phone booth just off Bleeker, eyes hidden behind dark sunglasses and studying the dizzying stream of humanity that was the city at noon.

"I need a burner. Can you get me one?"

"I'm sorry, what?"

"A burner, Stosh. An unregistered gun. Something small but lethal. And I need it by the end of the day."

There was a medium silence. Then, "Do I get to ask why?"

"You can ask …" she responded carefully.

"But you're not going to tell me, are you? That's okay: I probably don't want to know." There was another pause, shorter this time. "Diana, you sure you know what you're doing?"

"Positive."

Stosh came back with a low sigh, "I suppose I can help you with that. You're gonna have to give me a few hours."

"Great. Thanks. I appreciate it. I promise this won't come back to bite you."

Stosh chuckled wryly. "I've heard that before. So how's Vincent?"

_Strung-out_ is what she thought. But what she said was, "Ask me again day after tomorrow."

"Have anything to do with why you need- No, never mind, don't tell me. I have an active enough imagination."

"Listen, I'm sorry I haven't called you before now. Things got a little crazy when Vincent turned up so sudden. I hope it didn't freak you when I had Jamie call. She's a good kid. I trust her. Wouldn't've have had her do it otherwise."

"Don't worry about it. Is she family?"

"Yeah," Diana said smiling, despite her thoroughly crappy mood. "Yeah, she's family. Listen, something else: depending on how things shake out over the next day or so, I may need your help with a few other things."

"I'm asking this time. What?"

Diana rattled off the list she'd been compiling in her head in case she needed to pull a disappearing act and then said, "You're a resourceful man, Stosh; I figure maybe you could help me with that." Diana waited through a silence that stretched the length of time it took for the traffic signal at the corner to go through a complete cycle of green to yellow to red.

Finally: "What the hell, right? In for a penny, in for a pound. Tying up loose ends, are we?"

"We're not," she corrected, "I am. Like I told you before, this won't come back on you."

"I'm already a wanted dead man, Diana. I don't have much left to worry about as far as my reputation or social standing goes."

That forced a chuckle out of her. "Yeah, I guess you don't. I owe you, Stosh. I hope I can make it up to you someday."

"Just don't get yourself killed, okay? He's been through enough already."

And that without Stosh having the slightest idea what Celina had done to Vincent. He was thinking of Cathy's murder, of course, and Diana wondered if Stosh remembered the anniversary of her death was the following day. She wasn't going to ask. Just like she wasn't going to offer him any details about Vincent's ordeal. Some things demanded that kind of privacy.

"I appreciate your concern but I'm a big girl; been taking care of myself for a long time. I'll be fine. So you want me to call you later, about the other thing?"

"Yeah, maybe we meet up? The park or something."

"Okay, I'll call you. Bye."

Diana folded back the door of the phone booth and stepped out onto the sidewalk, weaving her way through the foot traffic, hands shoved in the pockets of her coat and resolutely fine-tuning her plan to eliminate Celina Corbin.

**...**

Vincent was at the table in Father's study, a book held open in his right hand. He was looking down at the words but they might as well have been written in Aramaic, for all the sense he could make of them now.

He'd come here with the unquestioned need to be in Father's presence. Not to talk, as Vincent had summarily explained upon arriving and had then apologized for, but simply _because_. Father had listened with attentive concern and then waved away his appeal for forgiveness, taking Vincent at his word and resuming whatever chore the pile of papers on his desk required of him.

It was the quietest part of the afternoon and Vincent had taken the opportunity to reacquaint himself with the study in all its complexities and treasures; its odds and ends and how, by tenuous threads, he was connected to every one of them. He was certain he'd opened every book there at least once; had blown or brushed off the dust from and then examined every knick-knack, statue, tapestry, candelabra, instrument, picture, toy and tool there. And it had taken him the better part of his life to do it.

He found an odd reassurance in the thought. And poking around the chamber helped keep at bay his increasing awareness of a pull; a calling that urged him to a place he didn't want to go. That was half the time. The other half he found himself more than willing - simply wanting to be done with it. But not yet: he wasn't quite ready.

Cognizant of Father's occasional assessing glances as he'd moved about the chamber, Vincent had sensed in him a patient waiting, and as such felt no urgent need to speak thoughts he couldn't yet form into words. If the words needed to be spoken, they'd come in their own time. Father had always allowed Vincent sufficient room and time to think over matters weighing on his mind. It was a gift, one borne of unconditional acceptance and love. A vast and expansive thing, yet close enough to be felt as comforting, protective arms.

He'd wandered up to the balcony and poked through the dusty and precariously stacked piles of books there, pausing as his hand passed over and then grasped the book of poetry he now held. _This is the one_, he'd told himself, without checking the spine to be certain, and had carried it back down the spiral staircase and to the table, where he'd settled in and begun thumbing through the pages, looking for a section of a particular poem. Having found and read it twice, he'd drifted from the written words to indistinct thoughts.

Apparently having decided enough time had passed without conversation Father casually mentioned, "I took a small group of youngsters to the Mirror Pool last night. We had our first lesson in astronomy. The sky was particularly clear; there seemed to be no end to the amount of stars to be seen. Remarkable, really. Did you happen to notice, Vincent?"

"No, Father," he admitted quietly. "I'm afraid I didn't."

"Well, there'll be other nights and other stars to gaze at. Ursula asked me to elaborate on the meaning of infinity, of a universe that goes on forever. It seems she, and most of the children in fact, had difficulty grasping the concept. I'm afraid I didn't do a very good job of it: they seemed more confused than ever when I'd finished. How would you go about explaining it to children that age?"

Father was wearing his teacher's face, as if this were a quiz. Vincent found himself ill-prepared. Nevertheless, he closed the book over a thumb to mark his place and tried to give the question his full attention.

"I'm not certain I can conceive of it myself, let alone explain it to anyone else. It's easier to imagine, I think, of all things having an ending. That, at least, one can envision. Everyone has experienced endings … and beginnings, as well. But forever … endless …? That is something we must take on faith … and not always," he sighed, "as easily."

He raised his head to find Father's placid eyes on him, his chin cupped in a gloved hand.

"And where do you suppose that faith comes from, Vincent, hmm?"

"I'm not sure," he conceded. "I don't think I'm the best person to be asking – not now anyway."

Father thought that over for a minute and then tipped his head at the book. "What've you there?"

"Something that came to mind last night," Vincent answered, closing his eyes briefly to recapture the memory of waking already joined with Diana, and of the lines that'd served as his thoughts until he'd stopped thinking and had only felt. "I needed … to see the words."

"Will you share them with me?" Father inquired lightly, feigning idle curiosity that was anything but.

Vincent's initial thought was to decline. It felt like an invasion of the privacy he and Diana deserved, this request to know what he'd been thinking as they'd made love. But that was silly. Father couldn't know under what circumstances the lines had been recalled. He opened the book, found his place, and began to recite softly.

_Extinguish my eyes, I'll go on seeing you.  
>Seal my ears, I'll go on hearing you.<br>And without feet I can make my way to you,  
>without a mouth I can swear your name.<em>

_Break off my arms, I'll take hold of you_  
><em>with my heart as with a hand.<em>  
><em>Stop my heart, and my brain will start to beat.<em>  
><em>And if you consume my brain with fire,<em>

_I'll feel you burn in every drop of my blood._

"Ah, _Love Poems to God_," Father said after a medium silence, one just long enough to allow the words their full impact. "Well, there you have it, then: your answer."

He glanced over, puzzled, and found a contented smile on Father's face. Vincent's brow furrowed as he looked him a question.

"There is your forever, your endless," Father explained, again nodding at the book. "Do you feel those words, Vincent? Do they … resonate?"

"Very much so," he admitted.

"Then love is the infinity of which you claim you cannot conceive. And the very same which allows one the faith to believe in it. So is it true … or don't you believe in love as something infinite?"

"Of course I do. It's what you've taught me from as far back as I can remember. And what I've learned through experience myself, over and again. 'My bounty is as boundless as the sea, my love as deep; the more I give to thee, the more I have, for both are infinite,'" Vincent finished, quoting Shakespeare - a favorite of theirs and a touchstone.

"Just so," Father heartily agreed, "but I also think the line that directly precedes those should be included, as well: 'And yet I wish but for the thing I have.' Ah, yes, and isn't that what we do, Vincent, as the flawed human beings we are? We always wish for more, not stopping to realize what we have is already everything. As if the eternal things can measured, like so much flour in one of William's bowls."

Vincent found himself remembering saying something similar to Stosh, when they'd met in Diana's loft several weeks past. And he wondered now at how easily the words had left his mouth, without the least thought of whether he truly believed them or not. Had such things become rote, especially since Catherine's death; a declaration simply mimicked instead of being certain knowledge?

But, no, that wasn't so. He knew it to be the truth. And yet something about the thought nudged him at an angle he hadn't expected and gave rise to other less contemplated and incomplete notions. Finding them vaguely unsettling, Vincent put the book aside and caught Father's eye.

"May I ask you something?"

"Of course."

"If given the chance … if you could have Margaret back, would you? If it meant giving up everything else: your life as it is now?"

Father sat back and cast an appraising, angled look his way. His cheeks puffed out and he expelled a breath through pursed lips.

"I dare not even hazard a guess at why you'd ask such a thing, Vincent." That came with an eyebrow lifted in invitation to relieve him of the task of having to speculate – which they both knew he would most certainly dare to do, despite his words to the contrary.

Vincent hadn't told Father that he'd be returning to the prison he'd left only days ago. He'd told him very little and meant to keep it that way. Though he found the silence hard, he knew it was for the best.

Judging by how difficult Diana had found his predicament to comprehend, he feared Father's incredulity would be twice that. Vincent was also aware Diana would tell Father - if and when it became necessary, if he himself wasn't able to, for whatever reason. He readily admitted the evasion was cowardly and the height of selfishness, but he was in no condition to do anything about it.

Eventually deciding he'd get no response to his invitation, Father began thinking about the question, his eyes focused upward as though his thoughts were balloons drifting about the ceiling of the chamber, and he need only pluck the right string to bring down the answer. Vincent sat patiently as he could considering that, within, he felt as though he were spinning like the animated Tasmanian devil he and Jacob had watched on Diana's television early one Saturday morning.

"It's a difficult question," Father ultimately decided. "I loved Margaret dearly, you know that. We had such little time together, she and I; and I what grieve most, I think, as I look back on my life. But had things not happened as they did," he said, his eyes sweeping the room, "just look at all I would never have had. My home … my community. My family. And you," he said, his eyes lighting on Vincent and holding there, "you, most of all.

"Would I have Margaret back at the cost of the life I've built here? No, I honestly don't think I would. Because you see, Vincent, the love we felt for each other, Margaret and I, is a part of me and always shall be. I need only close my eyes and think of her and she is here with me. So in essence I never lost her and can lay claim to the best of both worlds. One needn't make a choice when there is none to be made."

"But what if …" Vincent paused, finding it difficult to ask what he wanted without further muddying the waters of the conversation and piquing Father's curiosity exponentially. "What if you could no longer feel the presence of her love? What then?"

"Then I should think I'm not looking in the right place or hard enough." He crooked an eyebrow, vaguely amused. "Or perhaps, conversely, looking too hard."

"What do you mean?"

Father features shifted to a familiar, professorial look.

"Vincent, it is only when we try to grasp and hold the larger mysteries of life that we lose our ability to comprehend them: love; compassion; hope; death. One cannot hold in a fist that which requires freedom in order to be understood. Some things do not call for our examination but only … only our faith."

"That's an odd thing for a man of science to say," Vincent remarked. Meanwhile, he was recalling Narcissa's words to him the day before: _Do you truly believe such a boundless thing can be grasped within a fist?_

Father shrugged, his arms lifting high. "'I am large, I contain multitudes.'"

"You and Mr. Whitman."

"All of us, Vincent," Father rejoined warmly. "All of us."

In the quiet that followed, Vincent thought, _I must go from this place and soon. _The notion came as no surprise to him. He'd been thinking it ever more often as the day had progressed. Now, trying to sort through his conflicting thoughts and whispered urges, the juxtaposition of desires and needs, the burdens of grief and guilt, of anger and resentment, he was suddenly aware of a thread of familiarity within them.

And Vincent found himself thinking, _This is the anguish Rolley went through with his addiction. To want, with such need, the very thing that may destroy you. And to yet also feel the pull of what is brightest and most pure, the heart's blessing, just as strongly. If I could tear myself in two, once again divide my soul in order to answer both calls … would I?_

It was a startling thought: that he'd been just as much an addict as Rolley, before he'd lost Catherine. When the Other within him had been called upon so often in defense of her that it'd grown dependant on the dark release it found in that protection, had begun to crave it even as he'd denied its growing influence and had stumbled blindly, desperately, toward even the smallest sliver of light within that massive darkness.

_No, never again_, he thought. _I cannot live with a soul divided. I'll die first._

Vincent found his decision strangely comforting and glanced over to discover Father's concerned gaze fixed on him. He realized, meeting that look, that he'd been locked into a sort of abstraction and had no least idea how long he'd been held there.

"Vincent," Father began rather sternly - and he had his answer: it'd been too long. "I can't claim to be happy about your reticence to share with me what happened to you Above, but I do respect your right to keep your own counsel – especially where I'm concerned. It's not easy, but we've experienced times like these before, when we've had difficulty talking to each other, and have gotten past them. I'm certain that will be the case here, as well. But I cannot deny my concern for you. And I think you must speak to someone –"

"Diana knows," Vincent blurted. "She knows … as much as I do."

Father's mouth pulled tight and he jerked a nod.

"Yes, of course. Well, I suppose it makes sense you would confide in her."

"Father …"

"No, no, I understand, Vincent, I do. It's just … difficult sometimes. I've often thought it possible that a parent might become as reliant on their child as the other way around. I fear that has been the case with us. But I _am_ trying to be less … intrusive than I've been in the past. And if there must be someone else you tell your secrets to, I'm glad it's Diana. She deserves well of you – of both of us, actually. And you may tell her I said that."

They traded smiles and Vincent announced as he rose, "I shall, Father. I'm sure she'll be pleased … though she won't admit it."

"I think I should be disappointed if she does. Where are you off to, if I may ask?"

"I believe I'll fetch my son and take him to the Cathedral. He very much enjoys the echoes of his own laughter there."

"I remember a certain young man who would spend hours in the Cathedral, racing up and down the stairway and then flinging himself, exhausted, to the floor in the center of the chamber and staring up at the vast ceiling above him … dreaming boyish dreams."

Vincent gazed fondly at his father as a flood of unconditional love rose up within him. He blinked away the sting of tears and found himself at Father's side, leaning down to give him an awkward hug as Father half-rose from his chair to return it.

"I love you, Father," Vincent told him. It was very important, just now, that he say the words.

"And I love you, Vincent."

As he crossed back to the stairs and made the short ascent to the landing, Vincent wondered if this leave-taking from the study – the chamber he considered the very heart of his world - would be his last. That he couldn't even begin to guess at the answer was a grief all its own.

**...**

It was past ten that evening by the time Diana made it Below. By then she was almost frantic with the need to reach Vincent, to reassure herself he was still there. All through her lengthy and surprisingly candid meeting with Stosh, and then as dusk had fallen and she'd finalized her plans, she'd felt an increasing awareness of him, startling her in its solidity when she'd finally stood still long enough to take note of it.

As the hours had passed, it seemed to her that the fogged up window she'd been trying to see him through was slowly being made clear. And what she was picking up from him was unsettling, because it felt an awful lot like surrender.

Diana found him in his chamber, seated in the big leather chair and holding a sleeping Jacob in his arms. Vincent slowly turned his head to watch her as she came in. She could read nothing in his face, but felt an eerie calm emanating from him. Shrugging the tote off her shoulder and onto the chair by the door hole, she moved to his side and dropped a kiss on his forehead as he looked up at her. Bracing a hand on his shoulder for support, Diana leaned across him and gave Jacob a kiss, too. The baby slept right through it.

"How you doing?" she whispered, straightening up.

"I don't know. I'm not … sure."

He seemed drifty: not all the way there. Much like the night he'd come home. And where else he was now, Diana wasn't sure she wanted to know. But his abstraction was the same, except this time it wasn't from any kind of drug.

She couldn't help but notice the far-off look in his eyes, like he was seeing something in the distance, beyond the rock and stone walls of his home. Something maybe coming his way that only he could see. He shifted his attention to the baby.

"Catherine found death in my arms," he murmured and Diana slowly folded to a crouch, one hand gripping the chair arm, the other keeping steady contact with him through layers of patchwork sweater and sleeve. "And my son, our child, has found life in them. There's a symmetry there I think she'd appreciate." He glanced at her. "Don't you think, Diana?"

She floundered for a beat or two, caught up in eyes completely unmasked and so very solemn. She slowly shook her head. "I don't know. I guess so."

He seemed to accept that, shifting his gaze back to his son: the alchemy of love made flesh and blood; the living, breathing proof of Vincent's humanity - despite whatever else he was or might ever become.

Jacob was Vincent's Holy Grail. And Diana's heart was breaking because she knew he was saying good-bye to him. Just as he'd done with her the night before. A far different method, of course, but the outcome, the meaning, was the same. And she couldn't accept that without a fight.

"What if you don't go back? What if you just stay put?"

She knew she was grasping at straws. If the solution was that simple, they wouldn't be in the position they were in.

In return Vincent gave her a gentle, indulgent smile. After a few seconds he said, "Celina knows of the tunnels. Jacob. Father ... You."

"And she's using that as leverage."

"She never spoke the words. Not precisely."

"But she didn't have to."

"No," he agreed mildly. "And the implied threat is only part of it. The rest … I will not speak of again. It's very … difficult, just now."

_Difficult_. Yeah, that was likely the least upsetting word he could find to use for what she could only imagine he was going through. Because of what Celina had done.

Diana didn't have any anger toward Vincent, not anymore. All that had been burned away the night before. Because he was the victim - and the true spoils of the war Celina had set in motion; she, the baby, the tunnel community, they were nothing more than pawns.

But her rage at Celina was unmistakable, an intractable thing that burned coldly at her very core. Diana allowed herself to feel it for a split-second before she stomped down on it hard. She absolutely didn't want to further complicate things by having Vincent feel it too, and maybe begin wondering what she was planning to do with all that rage.

But either she wasn't quick enough or he wasn't nearly as drifty as she'd thought because he suddenly turned and looked at her straight on, his up-slanted eyes clear and icy blue. And she knew he'd read her like a goddam book.

"I don't know what will happen, Diana," he whispered urgently, "but you must promise me something. You mustn't interfere. I cannot keep you safe."

She met that serious, level look with one of her own. Told him, "And I can't make you that promise, Vincent. I'm sorry, but I can't. You asked for my help and that's what I'm trying to do."

"Then do as I ask now and distance yourself from this. That is how best you can help me. I have to know you'll be safe, Diana."

"I never asked for safe, babe. And I don't want your protection. I take care of myself - always have. And I take care of you."

Vincent abruptly stood and carefully laid the sleeping baby in his cradle. Diana stayed put as he tucked a blanket around Jacob and then wheeled on her. His posture telegraphed indignation.

"You would impose on me restrictions you're not willing to assume yourself?" he retorted in a harsh whisper. "You insist on protecting me but won't allow me to do the same for you? That hardly seems fair."

"This isn't about fair; it's about your survival. You do what you have to do and I will, too. Beside, we don't know how this is gonna play out."

Her statement wasn't exactly true. Diana was pretty sure she knew how it would go down. Or at least the few scenarios she was prepared for. But she also knew things could change in an instant. So it wasn't really a lie, either.

Vincent briefly shut his eyes and she knew he had his own ideas about what was going to happen – and had spent plenty of time thinking about it. So she waited to see if he was going to share with her. After a few moments he settled back into the chair, folded his hands in his lap, and studied the far wall of the chamber. But when he finally spoke, what he said came from a direction she hadn't been expecting.

"None of this would be happening if only I …" He went quiet for a beat and then finished softly, regretfully, "But I couldn't save her."

He was back to Catherine.

Everything in his life eventually led back to Catherine. Because in the end, it was all about his deep remorse; what Diana knew was a textbook case of survivor's guilt, but what he only recognized as some kind of epic failure on his part for not keeping Catherine safe, and the wound it caused was so deep that, a year later, it had only begun to heal. And then Celina Corbin had come along at the worst possible time and ripped it wide open again.

Diana respected him too much to deny his pain, or to soften the truth in an act of pity disguised as politeness. So what she said to him was, "You're right: you couldn't."

His eyes slid to hers.

"But you were there when she needed you the most, Vincent, when it really mattered." Diana gripped his arm tightly. "Do you think Catherine would've wanted it any other way, up on that rooftop; that she'd have rather it be anybody else with her? Do you have any idea what a gift you gave her - to be there with her at the end? Most people die alone, Vincent. But she didn't have to; she was with the one she loved most of all. "

Diana did an awkward crab-walk until she was on her knees in front of him, peering up at him intently, spread fingers clutching his legs.

"It doesn't matter what you think Celina's done to you or what she's got you believing. None of that matters. Because I swear to you, everything you shared with Catherine … the love, all that," she reached up and laid a hand over his heart, "it's still here. That can't be taken away from you. Stuff like that is forever. As long as you have your memories, you have Catherine. You're not going to find what you're looking for in Celina … because it's right here."

He shut his eyes for a long time. When they came open again, he looked down at her and said, "I have to be certain, Diana. Can you understand that? Sometimes it's not enough to simply know a thing: it must be felt, as well. And the only way I can be sure … the only way to feel that truth … is to return to Celina and confront her."

That set her back on her heels. Initially in relief, because what he'd said meant he was having serious doubts about Celina and how strong her hold over him really was. That he knew he was being played was one thing: any rational person would've reached the same conclusion, and Vincent was one of the most rational people she knew, except when he absolutely wasn't. But she'd been convinced last night that rational or not, the pull he felt, the false promise Celina offered him, was too strong for him to resist.

But Diana had been wrong again. Because now she realized Vincent wasn't returning because he had to, he was doing it because he wanted to. His choice. Because he had something to prove to himself – and to Celina.

Diana had no doubt he was taking her veiled threats seriously. And though it might appear to anyone else that he was surrendering himself to keep his family safe, she was struck by the absolute certainty that Vincent was planning to do just the opposite. He was gearing up for battle – maybe even the fight of his life. And as that realization sunk in, she was stricken by an even deeper sense of foreboding at what his return to Celina might signify.

She came up from her spot in front of him and walked a quick circuit around the chamber before turning back, arms folded tight against her chest.

"She's not gonna let you just walk out a second time. You know that, right?"

"Yes."

"That doesn't leave you with many choices, does it?"

"No, it does not." He pushed out a heavy sigh. "If she cannot be persuaded, if she refuses to free me from this charade …"

"Then … what? You won't hurt her – you can't. The second you touch her …"

She didn't finish the thought. She didn't have to.

Vincent's eyes shot up and locked on hers. "Which is all the more reason you must stay away."

Shaking her head and throwing her hands up in frustration, she insisted, "Explain that to me."

He sprung from the chair and took her arm, towing her most of the way down the passageway before he stopped and rounded on her.

"Why must you question everything I ask of you, Diana?" he demanded curtly, losing the whisper now that he wasn't as likely to wake the baby. "Is it merely to be contentious? Can you not simply trust that I have my reasons? If I cannot have your promise, might I at least ask for, and expect, that much? I have never been anything but forthright with you, in all things. I have entrusted you with my life, and with my son's life, and with those I live among and care deeply for. My heart, my very soul, is yours. I would gladly lay down my life for you. Not for reasons, but because I love you. So tell me, what more must I do in order to have you listen to me, to hear me and know my words to be most earnestly spoken? What more?"

About halfway through his diatribe, Diana found she could no longer meet his intent gaze and hung her head. And by the time he was finished and she found herself rhythmically butting her forehead against his chest, she was thoroughly embarrassed. She'd become so intent on her need to get him out of this mess, she'd overlooked the fact that she wasn't the only one heavily invested in a positive outcome. Hell-bent on rescuing him, she hadn't taken into account the fact that he'd had likely created, thought through, and strategized himself out of more scenarios than she could even hope to come up with.

And if that wasn't bad enough, she was also realizing what she'd thought was abstraction on his part was anything but: he was focusing with laser-sharp clarity, way beyond anything she was capable of just now. And that was so not like her. It was the complete opposite of everything she was - or everything she _had_ been, before Vincent had come along.

None of the rules she'd played by before could be relied upon to hold fast now. Because Vincent didn't fit the rules - _any_ of the rules. And the sooner she got that through her thick skull, the better off they'd both be.

"I probably should've told you this before," she mumbled against his vest, "but I have serious control issues. And I really suck at relationships."

She felt more than heard the low chuckle her confession forced out of him. And as his arms came up to enfold her, she let herself take a deep breath and relax against him.

"And I," he replied, "having little experience in such things, am still learning to properly navigate the waters. I think, Diana, charting the best and truest course would be easier working together rather than at cross-purposes, don't you? And I think there must be common goals agreed upon. Perhaps through the achievement of those goals we may find you don't, after all, 'suck' at relationships."

She snickered almost grudgingly and then ruined it by starting to cry.

"The only goal I have right now is getting you out of this mess."

"Well, that is certainly the most immediate; we're agreed on that. But you must let me steer the way this time, Diana. You must trust that I know where the danger lies and will stay clear of it as best I can. Will you do that?"

She bobbed her head in little jerks and then lifted on her toes and threw her arms around his neck. He drew her closer and nuzzled against her hair.

"If … if I have not returned … in a day's time, Diana, come for me then. Do what you must and what you think is best. I trust you to do that. But you must give me time to see if I may come free of this myself."

"Okay, you get twenty-four hours, buster, and then I'm coming after you."

"I shall depend on it. And perhaps once we're clear of this, we can talk of those common goals. I look forward to the opportunity to do that … with you."

**...**

He said he was tired but didn't think he could sleep. Diana suggested the bed anyway, and a good cuddle as an alternative. Still fully clothed but for boots, and under layers of warm quilts, they lay facing each other. Part of the time was spent in silence and part of it talking quietly. But touching, always touching.

He spent quite awhile threading his fingers through the loose waves of her hair and she watched him, spellbound, as he got caught up in the way the candlelight hit it, and then as he described it to her as breathtaking, like liquid fire in his hands.

Jacob began chuffing unhappily at one point and Diana stopped Vincent with a hand on his shoulder as he started to rise. Shedding quilts, she nimbly climbed over him and brought the baby back to their bed and laid him in his father's arms, resuming her spot with Jacob between them. He was soon fast asleep.

Diana watched Vincent rubbing his nose against the baby's dark blonde curls, pressing kisses there, and didn't even try to stop the tears blurring her vision. Instead, swiping them away, she looked to find Vincent's eyes on her, indigo blue in the candlelight, and wholly unguarded.

"Do you remember," she asked after a minute or so, "the night this whole mess started, after I ran you out of the study and then found you later, in the Whispering Gallery?"

Vincent made an affirmative noise low in his throat.

"You rattled off something then; part of a poem, I think. It was just one line, but I still remember it: 'This is the creature there has never been.' What's the rest of it?"

His brow creased a little at her question. But then he rolled his head on the pillow as he cast his eyes upward, clearly drawing from the vast encyclopedia that was his mind. Then, brushing away an errant lock of hair from her cheek, Vincent began reciting in hushed tones; the words and his skillful cadence calling up powerful and evocative images in her mind's eye.

_This is the creature there has never been.  
>They never knew it, and yet, none the less,<br>they loved the way it moved, its suppleness,  
>its neck, its very gaze, mild and serene.<em>

_Not there, because they loved it, it behaved  
>as though it were. They always left some space.<br>And in that clear unpeopled space they saved  
>it lightly reared its head, with scarce a trace<em>

_of not being there. They fed it, not with corn,_  
><em>but only with the possibility<em>  
><em>of being. And that was able to confer<em>

_such strength, its brow put forth a horn. One horn.  
>Whitely it stole up to a maid - to <em>_be__  
>within the silver mirror and in her<em>

"I love you," Diana murmured after a long time, surprised she could get the words past the lump in her throat.

Cupping the back of her head, Vincent gently drew her closer and kissed her forehead and then her closed eyelids.

"Don't cry," he whispered. "Please don't cry."

Sometime during his quiet affirmations of love and his feather-soft kisses, as she lay comfortably aware of the security of his embrace and the quiet breathing of his son as he dreamt between them, Diana fell asleep.

She woke later, a warm lump curled against the small of her back. Instantly aware of a much larger absence, she wanted nothing more than to go back to the pleasant dream she'd awakened from, instead of having to face the reality of the here and now.

For Vincent had quietly slipped away as she'd been dreaming, and she knew he was now beyond her reach and moving ever closer to Celina's malevolent grasp. Slowly, carefully turning, Diana gathered Jacob from the safety of where his father had placed him behind her, and held him against her heart, feeling very much alone.

**...**

There were four stops Vincent made on his way back to Celina. It was a familiar route, one he'd traveled many times since Catherine's death - though not for months now. It was always the same places, and always in the same order.

The first was the threshold below Catherine's apartment building. He spent some time there leaning back against the tunnel wall, just around the first sharp corner one would have to take in order to access the lower levels and eventual entry to the Hub. Closing his eyes, he tried his best to recall every meeting or leave-taking he and Catherine had shared there: the bittersweet and the joyous. Each memory was like a precious jewel, and he carefully polished every one, allowing the swell of emotions evoked to wash over him anew before gathering them together and tucking them away again, wholly felt and wholly familiar. They were a part of him and always would be.

_While I live, you live. With me. In me. Always._

Vincent took a minute before moving on to run his hand across the irregular opening out of the tunnel where he stood, and the remains of the brick wall that'd sealed it shut after he'd seen Diana at the threshold, before he'd known her. The very same wall she'd knocked back down again in her search for him. There was a symmetry there he found ironic enough to cause a half-smile to crease his face.

His intrepid Diana.

The next stop was Catherine's terrace. All the lights were off within and heavy curtains blocked his view into the apartment. A couple lived here now. Dawn was still a few hours away and Vincent knew they slept soundly.

He stood at the far end of the terrace, the very same spot he'd taken the first time he'd come there. He tipped his head against the red brick wall and did much the same as he'd done in the basement. He pulled up memories: snippets of conversations; looks; touches; comfortable silences; laughter and tears. He felt them all and then placed them with the earlier recollections he'd gathered, and with the unexamined awareness that he was arming himself, filling himself inexorably with a strength of spirit and a sense of truth.

_While I live, you live. With me. In me. Always._

Pushing away from the low parapet of the terrace, he gave a final glance over his shoulder at the closed, darkened doors and made his way back to the tunnels and to the building at 1900 6th Avenue, and the rooftop where Catherine had died.

As he stood atop the tall building, the wind whipping about him, shoving back the hood of his cloak and slapping chunks of mane into his face, stinging his eyes, the memories turned into ungentle things. Though painful, he pulled them into the light anyway, made himself recall each in its entirety. And found, even in the midst of the pain, something to cherish.

She was gone.

And yet …

He had been there with her, at the end. A gift, Diana had said.

As he was brought to his knees by the raw kinesthetic memory of catching Catherine in his arms as she'd collapsed, it occurred to him that Diana had been right. He hadn't been able to save Catherine, but he had been there to gentle her fall. To hold her, as he had countless times before. To see in her eyes the reflection of their love. To experience the gift of it again; its very existence a large act of fate and faith that humbled him still.

And he'd come just in time. The perfect time. Had it been any sooner, had the least moment been changed, his son may well have died, too. A sacrifice Vincent knew Gabriel would've been more than willing to abide, simply so he could declare himself the victor.

And had he come any later, he would have never known about the child, their son. Would have been too late to hear Catherine's last words: affirmation, truth, a promise.

_While I live, you live. With me. In me. Always._

And, now, in Jacob.

Forever. Endless. Immeasurable.

Vincent lay down beside her when he reached her grave. Not in despair, but in thanks. She had given him so much and had asked for so little. No request but that she be allowed his company. _His_ company. Clawed and fanged and furred, and not altogether human. And yet she had loved him. Given him a dream. And that, in turn, had awarded him strength and courage, and the faith to continue on without her. To dare to love again.

_Don't be afraid to want it, even only for yourself. Don't be afraid to deserve it._

How could he have ever believed he'd lost any part of Catherine?

Celina had stolen nothing from him; nothing that he'd not allowed her to take or that he'd even needed.

He'd been so immersed in grief and regret as the anniversary of Catherine's death had approached that he'd lost sight of the enormity of their love. Of the joy. Thinking only of the bodily impermanence of what he'd lost and not the spiritual forever of what he'd gained.

Celina had used his blindness to her advantage. She had captured enough of what lay in his heart to build her masquerade, and to make him believe all he need do to have Catherine back was simply reach out.

But Vincent knew now, as he sat up and rested his forehead against the cold granite of Catherine's headstone, that he had never lost her. That the embraces they'd shared were enough, because they were everything - and no magic could replace or replicate them. And that, instead of reaching out, all he'd had to do was look within. For Catherine was there.

_Always. _

"I am becoming the man I wanted to be," he murmured, "for you, Catherine. I only wish… No, I will not wish for more than that. Not when I have been given so much. What I must do now, I do for you. And for Jacob. And Diana. I will not live a lie, bound by chains of deception. I will die first. And I cannot grieve forever. You wouldn't want that for me, I know that now.

"Are you setting me free, my love? I feel your gift of wings. I wish to soar with them. To be, and do, everything you wanted for me.

"I wonder, was it you who sent Diana to me? If so, you chose wisely. She challenges me. She makes me strive to be a better … a better man. And she is very dear to me."

Vincent pushed to his feet with a heavy sigh and palmed his eyes dry. Then he reached and ran his hand across the curved top of the grave stone.

"So much love … I am surrounded …. within and without … by so much love. Nothing can stand against that and truly prevail. Not even death. Thank you, Catherine."

He bent and kissed the stone and slowly backed away, finally turning to begin the final leg of his journey.

**...**

It was with a sense of déjà vu that Vincent roused to consciousness to find himself in the room that was once again his prison.

He'd met with no resistance, as he thought he might, when he'd entered the penthouse, but he'd felt the presence of Celina's armed guards within the four walls – waiting and watchful. The penthouse had been dark, though the sky through the massive windows had shown him its indigo blue lightening toward dawn, just at edge of the horizon.

Celina had been standing at one of those windows, her back to him, her posture relaxed and sketched fluidly against the awakening sky that'd served as canvas. He'd crossed half the distance of the great room before coming to a stop.

He'd called her name then, and watched as she'd slowly turned. Though the sight of the large gun in her hand had come as a surprise, it hadn't been completely unexpected.

"There's no need," he'd started to explain as her arm had lifted and she'd taken aim.

"There is. I'm sorry."

And then she had pulled the trigger.

As Vincent looked dazedly down at the dart puncturing his chest, already feeling the effects of the tranquilizer rushing through his bloodstream, he'd thought, _And so we begin again. __Turning and turning in the widening gyre …_

He'd known nothing after that. Not until now.

He swung his legs off the bed, sitting up. Too quickly, it seemed, as his head began to pound and he raised a hand to cradle it.

"Is your headache very painful?"

Vincent startled at the sound of the voice coming from behind him. He hadn't known she was there, hidden in the shadows. Celina. He forced himself to stillness, determined to keep his back to her, to feign a trust she might find persuasive.

"The sedative I used this time is faster-acting and stronger than the last. But I was assured the after-effects wouldn't be as severe or long-lasting. I thought it might make things easier for you."

"That was very considerate," he found himself saying.

"Sarcasm, Vincent? I didn't know you had it in you."

"You don't know me very well."

"Perhaps not," she replied. He found an increasing awareness of her as she rose from the chair behind him and moved around the bed. "But you know me, don't you?"

She stopped in front of him, a scant yard away. Vincent lifted his eyes until they met hers. He opened himself fully then, waiting for whatever his senses might tell him. As he'd anticipated, it was still there in her: his sense of Catherine. But muted and diffused, in no way as acutely felt as before.

His overwhelming impressions were of Celina, alone. But there was no need for her to know that. Not yet. Not until he could judge the effects physical contact might have on him. That was where the true danger lay.

"It wasn't necessary to drug me," he quietly chastised. "I came of my own will."

Celina's head tilted as she studied him and she offered a tiny smile.

"True enough," she responded after a moment or two. "But I had no doubt you'd return. You're a man of your word, Vincent. What was in question was how willing you'd be to cooperate once you were here. Rather than risk any … damage you might've thought to do to my staff, I chose to sedate you instead. And I did apologize for it."

Her sincerity wasn't in question, only her motives. Knowing that, it was easy to set aside that part of the puzzle to focus on what had occurred to him that was of greater importance.

"How long have I been unconscious?" he asked. He couldn't even guess. There were no windows in the room and the sedative had wiped out his internal sense of time. He had to know; he was certain Diana would take the twenty-four hour deadline he'd given her very literally – down to the minute.

"What difference does it make?"

His reply was a direct and level stare. Celina broke it after a short time, glancing aside and folding her arms across her chest.

"Nine, maybe ten hours," she grudgingly offered. "I may have overestimated the amount of sedative you needed."

He let that pass without comment, instead remarking, "The sky was very clear last night. Tell me, it is the same now? Is the sun shining brightly today?"

She looked askance at him. His question came not without cause, but its secondary effect of knocking her off-kilter was unexpected and advantageous.

Vincent gave her no time to answer, adding, "If so, I'd like to see it. The view you have outside this room is magnificent."

That got him a far more skeptical look.

"Celina, had I wanted, I could have killed you ten times over by now. I've told you before: I have no wish to harm you. And I am here because I chose to be."

Then Vincent stood and, without hesitation, offered her his hand.

He thought he was prepared for what would happen as she slipped hers, soft and warm and so small, into his. But he wasn't. His memories of their previous caresses couldn't begin to equal the visceral shock of recognition that swept through him in those first few seconds of actual contact – the power of it.

It stole his breath. And it took every ounce of his will to keep from surrendering to it; to simply close his eyes and be swept away once again by Celina's lies. He was aware of her watching him with sharper attention and forced himself to look at her. To see her with eyes that knew her as the woman she truly was, and not the woman she wanted to be, for him.

She was not Catherine. And what he felt in her wasn't real.

_While I live, you live. With me. In me. Always._

"Please," he murmured, leading her toward the door, "Let's leave this room. I'd like to see the sunlight."

Celina was surprisingly cooperative, keeping hold of his hand and leaning against him as they traversed the length of the room. She turned slightly away when they reached the door, trying to shield his view of the keypad that controlled it, as she punched in whatever sequence of numbers it was that allowed the heavy metal door to slide open. Vincent had no desire to see what buttons she might have pushed: he didn't require that knowledge. He would not see the inside of Celina's prison again. Once outside its confines, he fully intended to stay free of it. Or die in the effort to do so.

As if on cue, the moment they stepped through the doorway and into the adjoining bedroom, an armed man stationed outside the far door wheeled at the sound of their approach. Spotting him, eyes going wide, the guard raised the rifle and caught him in its crosshairs.

The growl erupted from Vincent's throat without thought and Celina stiffened beside him. She wrenched her hand from his as she jerked around and gave him a swift, appraising look. He understood their alarm: it was one thing to see him unconscious or drugged and posing no threat; quite another when on his feet and with his wits fully about him.

Vincent knew what he was. And he well knew how valuable the fear of him could be. He had used the fact of his inhuman appearance on more than one occasion, in order to gain the advantage in a battle. Vincent had meant to frighten the guard. That he'd also deeply startled Celina was all the better.

"Put it down, Andre! Now!" she ordered, but her voice, tremulous and high-pitched, belied any strength in her command.

Vincent took a step forward and then let Celina halt him with an up-thrown arm before he could take a second.

"Stop it!" she snapped. Vincent wasn't certain which one of them she was addressing. "Put down your weapon, Andre, before you lose both your arms."

"Signorina Corbin – "

"I'm fine," she said, quickly recovering her nerve. "Am I not allowed to leave my own bedroom?"

"But … but," the man stammered, his eyes shifting between the two of them. Vincent stayed tightly focused on him and absorbed the guard's fear. He fed on it, grew stronger with it, and all without a moment's consideration.

"But nothing. I'm perfectly safe," Celina insisted as she grabbed Vincent's hand.

He was no less affected by her touch this time. He gained an instantaneous sense of the phantom spirit within her, yes, but he also knew what to expect now. It wasn't as stunning; more like a sudden jolt of electricity that quickly faded to only the uncomfortable awareness of its after-effect, its presence.

"Do you really think you can keep me any safer than he can?" Celina asked Andre as he stepped aside to let them pass. "Vincent is all the protection I need."

He bared his fangs at the guard in a malevolent smile and was placated when the man backed away. His satisfaction came not merely because he'd won this tiny skirmish, but because Celina's words were true. Whether a residual affect of the magic or not, his desire to keep her safe was genuinely felt. On some level he didn't wish to examine too closely, it pleased him that she trusted in his protection.

"Andre, I won't be needing your services the rest of the day. Nor those of Daniel's," Celina was saying over her shoulder as they moved down the hallway toward the living space. "Collect him - and Teresa, as well - and leave us alone. Pope is at the offices. Go there and have him find you something to do."

Vincent didn't have to look back to see the protest forming on the guard's lips. Celina's words were enough. "I don't pay you to questions my orders; I pay you to obey them! Is that clear? Or perhaps you need Vincent to persuade you."

He flinched inwardly at her threat. To give protection to those in need was an honorable thing. But what Celina was insinuating now was not.

_You wish me to be your guard-dog?_ he thought, _your assassin, and at a whim? This I can never – will never – be. You are not Catherine. And I am not that man anymore. _

The man he was now kept silent, biding his time, knowing that the endgame would soon be set in motion. He would either walk out a free man, with no threat hanging above his head - or be carried out dead. There were no other choices.

**...**

She dodged the old man as long as she could. But Father caught up with Diana in the nursery mid-afternoon, just as she was handing a sweaty, red-faced, and howling Jacob over to Livy.

"Sorry he's in such a lousy mood," she told her, "but I think it's me that's making him unhappy. I got a lot on my mind right now. I'm sorry, Peanut," she told the baby, kissing the top of his head. "I'll take you up to the park next time. We'll go for a ride on the carousel or something for a late birthday present, okay?"

He hitched in a breath in preparation for a fresh squawk and twisted in Livy's grasp, burying his face in her neck instead.

"Don't worry about it, Diana," Livy said. "He'll be fine. Won't you, Jacob?"

She swung away, feeling guilty and anxious anyway, and almost ran smack into Father.

"Ah, there you are, Diana. I've been looking for you."

"Yeah, sorry, but I gotta get going. Got stuff to do uptop."

She kept walking, heading for the door hole and the tunnel beyond, leaving Father to follow her or not. Naturally he followed. He hit the tunnel a couple seconds behind her and caught her up short just by saying her name in that parental tone every child, no matter how old, recognized and had no choice but to obey.

She stared at his boots as he came to a stop in front of her.

"Where is Vincent?"

Diana raised her eyes and found herself looking into a face that would tolerate no lies. So she kept still and gave him back what she hoped was an inscrutable expression. Meanwhile she was silently fuming, pissed at Vincent for putting her in such an uncomfortable position. And that on top of the sense of dread that'd been growing stronger with every hour that passed. Diana felt like she was liable to explode if she didn't do something soon. There was no way she could survive another twelve hours of this – no way in hell. But she'd promised him.

"Jeremiah saw him leaving the tunnels shortly after four this morning," Father was saying. "And there've been no reports from any of the sentries of his return. If you know where he is …"

"He's gone back to Celina's," she blurted and then muttered a curse under her breath. So much for keeping her mouth shut.

"What?" Father was aghast. "Why on earth would he go back there?"

"He, uh, he had some unfinished business, okay? And if you need more than that, you'll have to walk with me. I really do have to get topside."

Ambling along beside her, keeping up well enough despite her long strides, Father listened silently as she filled him in on what Celina had done to Vincent - and what Vincent had gone back to undo. He stopped her with a hand on her arm as she wound down and peered at her in utter dismay. And of the dozens of questions he had to have had at that moment, he managed to distill them down to what was most important.

"What do think will happen, Diana? Are you able to sense what he's feeling? How much danger is he in?"

She hesitated, poking at the sandy floor with the toe of her boot, finding it hard to look at him. She fell back on the truth because that was all she had, and it was what Father deserved.

"He's so messed up right now, you know? If I was calling the shots, well, I wouldn't have let him go at all. I would've found a way to get at her and taken care of it myself. I should've just done it right after she grabbed him, when I had the chance. But I didn't, damn it! And a couple nights ago, it was like he was saying good-bye to me or something. Like he doesn't think he's going make it out of this mess. He'll die trying to give her what she wants, Father. He can't be anybody's pet: it'll kill him. You know that better than anyone. But I promised him last night; I promised him twenty-four hours before I go after him."

Father grabbed hold of her arms, his cane falling with a small thud at their feet. She read determination, dread, and certainly in his features.

"Don't wait, Diana, go now. Do whatever you have to do. I'll help in any way I can from here, and we have our Helpers Above we can call upon."

That was all she needed to hear. She had permission now to break her promise. And it'd come from someone with a higher authority, in Vincent's eyes anyway, than anybody else could ever claim - even her.

"No," she insisted in response Father's offer, "it's too dangerous. And I'm not going in there unprepared. I spent a lot of time getting ready for this. Best thing you can do is sit tight. And pray. I'll let you know something as soon as I can."

Father let go of his painful grip on her arms, but only to draw her into a fierce embrace. As he hugged her, he said, "Sometimes the greater crime lies in not taking a life. Don't make the same mistake Vincent made with Mitch Denton."

She pulled back and they shared a long look of unqualified acknowledgement and understanding. Nothing more needed to be said. Nodding, she bent and grabbed Father's cane and handed it to him. And as she turned and walked away, she heard him call out softly, "God speed, Diana."

**...**

He readily accepted Celina's offer of food and drink. Vincent couldn't remember the last time he'd eaten and he was shaky with hunger and from the affects of the sedative. He leaned against the marble countertop of a starkly white kitchen almost the size of the communal one Below, and watched as she prepared a late lunch of cheese and mushroom omelets and toast with chunky strawberry jam.

They ate at a small table in the kitchen, warmed by the sunlight that poured unimpeded through the two story windows. Vincent said very little, preferring to listen as Celina described to him her villa in southern Italy and her estate in the French countryside. She told him of the views of the sea and of mist-covered meadows stretching out as far as the eye could see; of gentle hills and rough, harsh cliff-sides. She spoke of vast evening skies filled with stars, and fields of gold blazing in the sunlight.

Implicit in her stories was what could be his, what she would gladly share with him. But she had no idea what the cost to him would be. Vincent honestly couldn't tell if she even cared. She wanted only what she wanted. As she talked, he began to recall some of the conversations they'd had when she'd first brought him here, in those timeless days spent in a haze of magic and drugs.

Those talks had been filled with darker things: recollections of her childhood and youth, years spent with no company other than that of servants, nannies, and teachers. Her mother had been murdered when she was very young, and her father absent more often than not. Those stories had been told with little emotion, more an offering of facts than a sharing of memories. And Vincent felt anew how deeply damaged Celina was, how far from grace she'd fallen. He'd thought when he'd first heard her accounting that she could be saved. He knew better now.

While undoubtedly shaped by the events in her life, each new day had brought the opportunity to make different choices, to do things in a new way, to become a better person. But Celina had chosen to follow a darker path, one that'd led her to believe anything was permissible so long as it served her purposes. She had become what, as a child, she'd so hated in her father and uncle: a cunning and skillful predator. That she was beautiful and graceful and wore a perfect mask of charm made her all the more dangerous.

As they moved to the living room and, later, to one of the low couches there, Celina remained at his side, never more than a slight hand's reach away. And she touched him often, so he was never unaware of the layering of her presence with that of Catherine's. Rather than the baffled joy it had brought him when first he'd felt it, now it only made him sad. Not for himself and the reminder of what he'd experienced through Catherine's love, but for Celina and what she'd never known.

He was certain it was her misplaced security in the strength of the masquerade she'd woven that had led her to release him four days past. And her greatest weakness that she hadn't taken love into account when she'd done it. Celina had given him just enough time, free of her influence, to see through her magic and gather the armor and ammunition he needed to fight back.

What Vincent hadn't foreseen was the lassitude that seemed to increase with each hour that passed in her company. Though his intent had been to immediately engage her in a conversation that would lead - in a very direct way, if necessary - to her agreement to release him from this sham and allow him to return to his life, he found he couldn't muster the proper enthusiasm to do so. He experienced pangs of guilt even considering it. Which made no sense. But it was so much simpler, more peaceful, to sit and listen to her fill the silences with stories of places she'd been and things she'd done. He knew his apathy was dangerous and likely brought about by the almost constant exposure to that which felt like Catherine, but he still found himself wanting to avoid a confrontation with her. Vincent began to feel deeply troubled.

As the sun began its descent behind the tallest of the skyscrapers, he turned his head to find Celina studying him. Her hand rested lightly on his knee. "You've been very quiet, Vincent. More so than usual."

"I've nothing to say you'd want to hear." He felt her sharper attention and instinctively knew the time had come to rouse from his lethargy and begin the task of gaining his freedom. The longer he waited, the more dangerous the situation would become.

"I don't believe that's true," Celina remarked after a moment. "I'm interested in anything you have to say." She studied him for another minute or two and he could feel her trying to pinpoint the cause of his demeanor. He sensed it the moment she was certain what it was. "I know this day must be very difficult for you. I was hoping I could make things a bit easier. But it would help if I knew what it is you need. What are you thinking, Vincent?"

"I'm thinking," he said, dipping his head and answering honestly, "of how blessed I am." He felt her approval at his statement and, knowing it to be misguided, twisted a little to face her more fully. Celina looked back at him with barely-hidden expectation. "I made you a promise that I would return here. And I did. I've kept my word."

"About that, yes, you have" she quickly qualified.

"Now I need your promise in return."

"What is it that you want? If it's in my power to give it …"

"It is." Vincent came off the couch just enough to pivot and sit back down on the coffee table, facing Celina. He reached and took both her hands in his. Closing his eyes for the briefest of moments, he allowed himself a final, small time to float there on nothing but the conjuring of a reborn and beloved presence, before opening them again. He said to her, "Give me my freedom. And promise me that no harm will come to those I love. Let me go home."

Her eyes moved over his face for a several seconds and then she began to laugh. Startled by her outburst, Vincent pulled away, instinctively breaking a connection that'd suddenly become ominous.

"Don't be ridiculous, Vincent; you're not going anywhere." Celina pushed off the couch and strode away, crossing half the distance of the room before turning back to him. "Don't mistake my kindness for stupidity. I've invested far too much in you to simply let you go."

"I don't belong here," he argued quietly. "And I don't belong to you. I cannot be what you want."

"You have no idea what I want! You think this is just about love? You think you know me and what I need? You know nothing! I'll have to give my uncle credit, though: Gabriel saw your potential, but he had no idea what to do with it. I do."

"What are you saying?"

"You're stronger than I thought you'd be, I'll grant you that. I assumed your grief would make you more … compliant, more susceptible to my magic. But what has been done is enough to serve my purposes. Perhaps I was mistaken to let you for as long as I did. But I had my reasons."

"What … reasons?"

"You'll find out soon enough. And you'll keep your promises, Vincent. All of them."

Celina made her way to a desk closest to the hallway leading to the elevator and opened its center drawer. When she turned back around, there was a gun in her hand. Vincent watched warily as she came back and stopped in front of him. Then she fearlessly offered him her free hand. And without knowing why, he took it, and let her pull him to his feet

"This one is loaded with bullets, not darts" she told him calmly. "If you try to leave, I'll kill you. A single shot to the head will take you down, Vincent. You may be remarkable, but you're still as mortal as the rest of us. You need to understand: what I have, I keep. And what I can't keep, I destroy."

Vincent struggled with the opposing needs rising up in him. Part of him wanted to let go of her hand and walk away; invite the bullet and his death, end this now and forever. Another part wished to wrench the weapon from her faster than she could react, and then close his hand around her throat.

Impossible. Even now, fully recognizing the part he unwillingly played in Celina's twisted game, he knew he could do her no harm. Diana's warning echoed in his head:

_You won't hurt her – you can't. _

At that very moment another, far more insistent, part of him commanded that he stay where he was, not give Celina a willing target. Because he was just now comprehending the enormity of what was happening, of what she'd anticipated, of the promises he'd made to her, and why she'd let him go four days earlier. And that what had been his greatest fear was now upon him.

"Let's just play at being the lovers we'll someday be, shall we?" Celina said. "It shouldn't be too much longer now. I expect as soon as it's fully dark, Diana will be joining us."

**...**

"What the hell are you doing here?"

"Whoa, tiger! You wouldn't shoot a one-legged man, would you?"

Diana slowly lowered her weapon and gaped at Stosh and the other man she instantly recognized as Nick as they climbed the staircase from the landing of the floor just below her and joined her in front of the steel door.

"What the hell are you doing here?" Diana repeated as she stuffed the burner Stosh had gotten her between the waist band of her jeans and the small of her back. "How'd you know where I was?"

Where she was happened to be the building Celina was living in. And the door they stood before opened onto a service hallway that shared its interior wall with that of the penthouse. Along that wall was another door that opened into the large pantry of Celina's kitchen, with a service elevator directly across from it. For her staff, of course, because it wouldn't do to have them come in the front way. Might offend the lady of the house.

Stosh was trying to make a contrite face and not quite pulling it off. "I've kind of been keeping an eye on you since our meeting yesterday,"

Meanwhile, Nick was giving her the same kind of creepy grin she'd gotten after he'd had some bozo kid almost knock her on her ass on a street corner just a couple months back. Diana noticed both Stosh and Nick were dressed head-to-toe in black, with watch caps pulled down low. Like they were urban ninjas or something. And Stosh was definitely carrying a weapon: she could see it holstered under his pea coat.

"You've kind of been what? Goddam it, Stosh, I told you to stay out of this!"

"I'm not real good at taking orders. Beside, I thought you might want a hand." He glanced back at Nick. "Or two."

"What I want is for you to get out of here. I don't need any help."

"Is that why you climbed all those stairs instead of taking the service elevator: because you don't need any help? Nick and I rode it right up to the floor below us. But I guess it's a lot easier to pick a lock than it is to get past a coded keypad, huh?"

Diana bit back a curse and sent it via her expression instead, figuring Stosh would get the gist. Yeah, the keypad that would've gained her access to the elevator - had she known what to do with it - had thrown her, but just for a minute or two. Diana was very adaptable. And her Pop's old not-so-legal lock-picking kit had gotten her where she needed to be - up till now, anyway.

"I assume you noticed the hired guns and the assistant leaving this afternoon and not coming back?" Off Diana's nod, Stosh continued, "You think it's going to get any easier once you're inside that hallway?" He sketched a smirk she wasn't sure she appreciated or not. "There's another keypad you have to get past to get into the kitchen. I thought you studied the blueprints."

"Most of them," she muttered. "Been sort of tied up with other things."

"Well, you're in luck, Diana. Nick just happens to be a techno-geek. He can get you past that pesky keypad in no time flat. Can't you, Nick?"

"I can!" That came with another weird grin delivered over Stosh's shoulder - albeit what she was just now realizing was a harmless, aiming to please, sort of grin. Diana was beginning to wonder if maybe Nick and Mouse were distant cousins. Nothing would surprise her anymore.

Much as she hated to admit it, and to put two more lives on the line she'd be responsible for, Stosh was right: she needed their help. At least, up to a certain point. Once she was through the staff's entry door, Stosh and Nick's part in this was over. She told them as much and waited until she got two nods of assent - Stosh's coming much more hesitantly than the younger man's.

"Look, you want to help after that," she said, "get back outside and bring your car around to the alley. If I pull this off, we may need to high-tail it out of here. Besides, I hate to point out the obvious, Stosh, but you're not exactly in the greatest physical shape right now. Can't see you running any races."

"This is still one hundred percent," he retorted, poking at his temple.

"Yeah, and I'd like to see you keep that head in one piece. So we're agreed: you get me into the penthouse and then you get out, right?"

"And what are you planning to do if she has him locked up in the safe room, Diana?"

"She doesn't. Don't ask me how I know. I just know."

Stosh looked back over his shoulder at Nick and then faced her with neutral eyes. "Okay, whatever you say." He waved at the fire door and the lock set into it. "I believe this one is yours, Detective."

Diana pulled the kit from the pocket of her fatigue jacket, squatted down, and got to work on the lock. She was waving the men off and slipping through the door into the penthouse less than ten minutes later.

She might not have paid much attention to the wiring schematics of the place, but she knew the layout of it as well as her own loft. The kitchen was bathed in shadows, illuminated only by the last of the daylight and the thousands of artificial lights coming on in the buildings around her. She absently noted the remains of a meal set for two on the small breakfast table and carefully edged around the doorway leading into the formal dining room.

She could faintly hear music now, coming from the enormous living room that lay just beyond. Lots of violins sawing away, but quietly, and she surprised herself when she recognized the piece as one of Vivaldi's. Vincent would be proud of her: some of that high-brow music and culture they were all so fond of Below had managed to rub off on her.

Diana reached and tugged her gun loose as she sidled toward the far doorway leading into the living room, keeping close to the wall and in the shadows. She took a deep breath and a quick peek around the doorway and then pulled back, her brain shifting into high gear as it processed what her eyes had seen. One more look around the corner confirmed it.

Vincent and Celina were standing in the middle of the dimly lit room, side by side, and turned away from her. Vincent was wearing his cloak and the full sleeve of its left arm was draped around Celina's shoulders. So it stood to reason that Vincent's arm was, too. They weren't talking, weren't moving, they were just standing there. And Diana knew without a doubt Celina was waiting on her to get this twisted party started. As stealthy as she had been, Celina had still known she was there. She awkwardly crossed herself with her left hand and stepped out of the doorway, her right arm lifting, her gun locking onto its target.

"Step away from him, Celina," she heard herself saying. "Nice and slow."

They turned to her as one, in a single, fluid motion. And now Diana could see that Celina was, indeed, tucked up tight against Vincent, her right arm hidden around his back, her left crossed in front of her and holding his hand. Vincent's arm was most definitely slung over her shoulders. They looked for all the world like a couple in love, and giddy with it.

Diana couldn't afford to do more than shoot Vincent a quick glance. His attention was all on Celina. The only lamp that was on in the room was behind them and she couldn't really see his eyes. But his posture was oddly relaxed, even though he was locked up tight as a drum inside. She couldn't sense anything from him. Her initial thought was that Celina had doped him up again.

Instead of stepping away from Vincent as she'd been told, Celina let go of his hand and slowly raised hers to cup his chin, pulling him toward her. And then she lifted up and kissed him. Vincent didn't protest, didn't back away. He simply stood there and let himself be thoroughly kissed. Diana knew then that the only drug he was on was Celina. She was suddenly furious.

"I said back off! Now!"

Celina ended the kiss and turned to her, Vincent remaining where he was, shaggy head dipped, his gaze focused on the woman beside him - as if by kissing him, Celina had put him into some kind of odd stasis. Part of Diana's brain slid off to collate that notion, along with everything that'd come before it, and concluded the embrace she'd witnessed was just one of several he'd received before she'd gotten there. It made sense: a kiss, especially for Vincent, was such a deep connection, physically and empathically. What better way to overwhelm him with what he'd feel as Catherine's presence than with something so direct, so intimate?

"Or what, Diana?" Celina challenged. "What will you do: shoot me?"

Diana brought her right arm level with her shoulder, braced it with her other hand, and cocked back the hammer of the gun.

"Yep," she said.

At that very same moment, Vincent's head snapped up and he focused on her with icy intensity. It took only a fraction of a second for the sound of his low growl to reach her ears; another second for her to realize how bad things really were.

"You may want to reconsider," Celina was saying flatly. "You see, Vincent gave me his word he'd keep me safe. He won't allow anything bad happen to his Catherine. Isn't that right, darling?"

Diana's heart increased its hammering as his only response was another growl aimed in her direction. She could see the glint of his fangs as his cleft lip curled up in a snarl. Her mind was chattering at her at a thousand miles an hour. _Oh no, no, no, this can't be happening, this can't be happening …_

But it was. And Diana figured she had only seconds to do something about it before Vincent let loose and came after her. Because then she would have to shoot him. If she didn't, he'd tear her to pieces. He'd likely do that anyway, even if she did get a shot off before he could reach her and remove half her face with one annihilating swat. He'd taken two bullets to the chest and still managed to rip John Moreno to shreds.

"Why are you doing this?" Diana practically shouted the question. And then had to back up as Vincent took a step forward, pulling Celina along with him. Part of her mind was ordering her to put the gun down, the other part kept it wavering between the two of them.

"You really don't know, do you?" Celina asked. "You're either extraordinarily short-sighted or incredibly obtuse. You're the only thing standing in my way. Once you're gone, I'm all he has left."

Diana was struck dumb by the sheer evil of the woman. It was so obvious to her, now, that she didn't know why she hadn't figured it out before. Celina not only wanted her dead, but fully intended that Vincent be the one to kill her. Blindly lost in whatever sick and twisted hold Celina had on him, he perceived Diana as nothing more than a threat to her safety.

It all made sense now. Celina had let him go, knowing full well that Diana would see what she'd done to him, hear all the gory details, and run head-long after Vincent right into the trap she'd laid. The weapon in that trap, what would kill Diana in the end, would be the very man she was trying to save.

And, my God, what would it do to Vincent when he eventually came free of his fugue and realized what he'd done? She couldn't even begin to wrap her head around it – she just knew it would be horrific. So, instead, Diana focused on the one thing Celina had said that she was certain she stood a chance of fighting against. It was her only hope.

And in the end, she didn't really even have to think about it, she just did it. Cautiously folding, keeping her eyes on Vincent, Diana laid her gun on the floor and then straightened and lightly kicked it away with the side of her foot. She glanced away from Vincent and directly at Celina.

"Oh, you are so wrong," she told her, and could feel the truth of the words in every cell of her body. "You have no idea how wrong you are."

Diana steadfastly pushed every thought of what was happening to the back of her mind and focused instead on the world Below and the tunnel community. She remembered candlelit chambers and friendly, smiling faces; the sounds of children's laughter and the soft clanging of the pipes; the dusty stacks of books in the study and the peaceful stillness of the Mirror Pool at midnight. And then she called up beloved faces and names, one by one; replayed conversations and gatherings with those loved ones; all the music and the dancing and the celebrations; all the quiet times, and the silence of the deeper tunnels that served as comfort in a primal, unquestioned sort of way. And she thought about Vincent and how much she loved him, how wondrous he was to her, and how very blessed she felt to be a part of his life and his extended, loving family, his world.

She gathered those precious recollections and emotions into one shining, brilliant bundle and allowed it to grow large within her. When she was just at the point of bursting with it, a swollen and warm thing that was good and kind and everything decent, she looked into Vincent's dull and darkened eyes, gave an enormous empathic push, and began shoving it all at him.

She said to him, "How's Jacob, how's the baby? Can you feel him? I spent most of the day with him. We hung out down by the Falls while some of the kids got swimming lessons from Cullen. Had a hell of a time trying to keep him from jumping in and joining them. He's gonna be a fish just like his daddy. It's his birthday today, remember?"

Diana shot a quick glance at Celina, took a breath, and plowed back in. She knew she had to bring Vincent back to the here and now. Remind him of the present and pull him away from the past. Help him remember all he had waiting for him, Below. Offer him a real life instead of a fabricated ghost.

"We hung out with Mouse for awhile, too. I guess he's in trouble with Father again, but I'm not sure why. I asked him but he just said it was 'stuff.' Do you know what he's done now, Vincent?"

This time she got a visible response. He shut his eyes for a second, and when he opened them back up they were a bit clearer and he actually seemed to be seeing _her_, and not just a threat. Another glance at Celina told her she was running out of time. The woman was carefully watching them both and leaned a little away from Vincent to get a better look at him. Then she squeezed herself up tighter against him.

"That's enough," she said. Diana ignored her.

"The kids are already starting to rehearse the play for Winterfest, can you believe it? They've got Mary and Rebecca designing costumes and they asked me if I'd help them throw some sets together. Oh, and I think Zach could probably use your advice. That girl he likes so much and wants to go steady with - Bailey? – I guess she passed a note to Christopher in math class and now Zach's all bent out of shape about it. Young love, huh?"

"Shut up, Diana," Celina spat out. And Vincent shuddered beside her.

"I had to tell Father what was going on - you know, with all this. Couldn't keep it from him any longer and, besides, he needed to know. I wish you hadn't put me in that situation, but I understand why you did, and we'll have time to hash it out later. We're gonna have lots of time. I been thinking a lot about what you said last night, about common goals. I'm looking forward to having that talk, too."

Vincent raised his eyes and pegged her with a startled, lucid gaze. Celina grabbed hold of his arm as he pulled away and took a couple steps forward, and he towed her along with him. His brow winkled in confusion as he glanced aside at Celina, like he didn't know what she was doing there, hanging on to him like that, and then back at her.

"Diana?"

"Yeah, Vincent, it's me. How you doing?"

"I'm not – I don't – You shouldn't be here, it's not safe."

"Stop it, Vincent!" Celina ordered. "Stop this nonsense right now. She has a weapon! She's going to kill me!"

Vincent gave a swift glance at the gun Diana had surrendered, just a foot or two away from where she stood. Then he looked back up at her, and she could've sworn she heard his voice in her head, loud as a shout, telling her, _You're going to have to do it. Because I can't._ And then he wrenched away from Celina and stepped between them, blocking her from view, and Diana bent, grabbed, and came up with gun. She had Celina in her sights before the woman could react.

Celina slowly back away and delivered a look at her so filled with hatred that it stung like a slap. Then she trained that look at Vincent's back as he walked away from her, every step bringing him closer to Diana.

"You ready to get outta here, babe?" she asked him. "I know I am."

Something seemed to snap inside Celina then. Her face twisted and she lifted her hands in small, tight fists. "You can't do this, Vincent, do you hear me? You can't! You promised me! You gave me your word you'd protect me. You promised!"

Vincent came to a dead stop. Diana squinted curiously at him; half afraid of what would happen next. Then he wheeled part of the way around and focused all that solemn, quiet strength on the woman who'd brought him to this place.

And what he said to her was, "No, you're mistaken, Celina. The promise made was to Catherine … and she is beyond any need of my protection."

Diana wanted to jump up and down and dance a jig. She settled for an inward grin a mile wide as Vincent reached her side. She looked away from Celina for just a second or two, just long enough to direct him: "Back that way, the way I came in."

Those few seconds were all Celina needed. She twisted toward the coffee table behind her and Diana saw what she hadn't been able to see before. The gun was in Celina's hand and pointed at them before Diana could draw another breath.

Time slowed down to a crawl and, later, she would be able to remember every detail as if each second had lasted a lifetime. She saw Celina's finger tighten on the trigger and felt Vincent go rigid and begin to turn. She experienced the clear sensation of the leather laces on Vincent's cloak sliding through her fingers as she started to grab and shove him away, knowing she hadn't been quick enough and that one of them was about to die.

"Hey!"

The shout came from the far side of the living room and all three of them turned at the same time. Diana caught a flash of Stosh's strained and pale face as he burst out of a hallway there, gun in hand. There were three rapid-fire shots and Stosh's left arm jerked back in slow motion as a spray of blood exploded from it. And then movement registered from the corner of her eye and she whipped her head around and saw Celina hit the floor, arms akimbo and dark red arterial blood rapidly staining the front of her blouse.

Celina was drawing in painful, gasping breaths by the time she and Vincent broke free of their shock and joined Stosh as he stood over her. He shoved his gun back in its holster and bent to retrieve Celina's from the floor, handing it off to Diana and grimacing as he went to grab his other arm.

"You okay?" she asked in a clipped, shaky voice, and then tried to figure out what to do with both guns. Without a word, Vincent held out his open palm and she laid Celina's gun in it and shoved hers back in her jeans. Then she took the other one from him, hit the safety, and stuffed it in her jacket pocket.

"Yeah," Stosh said through gritted teeth. "I think she just winged me." Blood was already seeping through the gloved fingers he had wrapped around his upper arm, giving lie to his optimism.

Diana glanced over just as Vincent dropped to his knees beside Celina. Her eyes were open and were beginning to dim, the life leeching from her as rapidly as her blood. She reached toward Vincent with trembling fingers and her mouth moved as she tried to form words. He bent low and brought his ear close to her lips, grasping her seeking fingers in his large hand. Diana saw her speak, but couldn't hear the words. And then Celina pushed out a final breathy sigh and died.

Diana and Stosh exchanged a sober look before he said, "We gotta get the hell out of here. Like, now."

She nodded. "You go on, we're right behind you."

Stosh took off toward the kitchen. Diana gave Vincent few more seconds, not even close to being able to comprehend how this might be affecting him. A year ago tonight, Catherine had died in his arms. And now another woman, who'd changed in his life in a far different but just as fundamental way, had taken her last breath, with him as reluctant witness.

"Vincent, we have to go," she murmured, laying a hand on his back. "Stosh is waiting for us." He gave a slow nod and rose.

"Yes, of course," he said distantly, giving Celina a last look and taking Diana's arm, leading them toward the kitchen. He stayed quiet as they left the penthouse and started the long climb to the ground floor, Diana hoping like hell they wouldn't run into anybody on the stairs. Luck seemed to be on their side, though, and they got down without being seen and met up with Stosh in the alley just as Diana heard the faint whine of sirens in the distance. Nick was behind the wheel of the car and Stosh was holding the back door open for them.

"Let's get out of here before the cavalry arrives," he said. His face was even more ashen than before and the entire left sleeve of his coat was wet with blood. Diana was more than willing to climb in the car and go, but Vincent's hand on her arm stopped her momentum. She swung around and caught the shake of his head.

"There's a threshold just down the alley," he told her. "You go with Stosh. I'll see you Below."

"The hell with that! I'm going with you." She spun back around to Stosh. "You need to get to a doctor, get that arm looked at."

"Sure, I'll just have Nick drop me off at the nearest emergency room and explain to them I'm not really Elliot Burch, I just look a hell of a lot like him."

She smacked herself on the forehead. "Oh, shit, I forgot about that! What are you gonna do?"

That's when Vincent stepped in and said, "My father is a doctor and has some experience treating gunshot wounds. More than he would like, I think. Would you consider coming with us and letting him look after you?"

If he noticed the way Diana was gawking at him, Vincent didn't let on. He didn't seem real concerned with Nick either, who was staring wide-eyed at him through the open driver's side window. Diana heard him mutter, "Wow," and turned her attention back to Vincent.

"Would you like to see my home, Stosh?" he was saying. "It's like nowhere you've ever been." The sincere invitation must have decided him. Or maybe it was something else. Diana wasn't sure.

Stosh said, "I thought you'd never ask. Besides, it's the least you can do, right? Since I seem to have made a habit of taking bullets for you." That came with a wan but mischievous grin. Then he leaned in the open window of the car. "Nick, head on back to the apartment. I'll contact you when things die down a little. From what I understand, there aren't any phones where I'm going, so it may be a couple days. Just keep your head down and wait for somebody to call, okay?"

Diana was getting antsy, shifting her weight from one foot to the other, every second that passed bringing the sounds of the police sirens closer. "Look, guys, can we wind this up? We have to go."

Vincent was already moving toward the front of the car, heading for the threshold farther up the alley. He stopped dead in his tracks when Nick's arm shot out the window, hand extended.

"Hi, my name's Nick," he said heartily.

Vincent hesitated only a second before he took the hand offered him and shook it. "Nick, I'm Vincent. It's nice to meet you."

Diana was positive if things got any more surreal, she'd splinter with it. She'd just about had as much weird as she could take in any one day, and honestly didn't know whether she should be laughing or crying. She waited for a second, and when neither thing happened, grabbed Stosh's good arm and dragged him away from the car, breaking into an slow jog until they caught up to Vincent. He was squatting next to a manhole cover and dragging it aside as they reached him. He disappeared into the hole and, with Diana's help, got Stosh down the iron rungs of the ladder. She played caboose, bringing up the rear, and when she was safely down Vincent climbed back up and pulled the cover into place.

They stood in total darkness while he dug in his cloak for the ubiquitous candle stub and matches. Once they had some light, he handed the candle to Diana and positioned Stosh between them, leading them slowly down the tunnel.

"We haven't far to go," he explained. "Perhaps ten minutes and we'll have reached the sentry post under Belvidere Castle. We'll stop there and signal for a stretcher to be brought. Can you make it that far?"

"I don't need a stretcher," Stosh said, and then promptly passed out and slumped against him. Vincent caught him up and lifted him in his arms, holding him as easily as he would a child. He shot a concerned look at Diana.

"Do you know the way from here?"

She squeezed her eyes shut and shuffled through her mental map of the upper tunnels. "Straight ahead," she said, opening her eyes. "And then the second … no, the third cross tunnel, I want to take a left. It should lead down. Right?"

She didn't know why Vincent was smiling at her, but she supposed it didn't matter.

"Yes, that's the way. I believe Rodney has that post this evening. Have him signal for help. I'll be there as soon as I can. Stosh is heavier than he looks and I'm hesitant to run with in my arms. You should hurry, Diana."

She looked down at the nearly useless candle in her hand and then back at him. He quickly read her unspoken question and told her, "You'll reach a lighted section of the tunnels after another hundred yards or so. Take care you don't trip on the gratings. As long as you stay close to the walls, you'll be fine."

If Vincent thought she could handle it, then that was good enough for her. She hesitated only as long as it took her to blow out the candle, knowing Vincent didn't need it, and then took off running like a bat out of hell.

It wasn't more than half an hour later that two of the older teenagers were hauling Stosh, who was laid out on a stretcher with his arm tightly wrapped, in the direction of the hospital chamber. By unspoken agreement, she and Vincent didn't try to keep up, lagging behind the small group that included the stretcher bearers, a few of the younger kids wanting to get in on the excitement, and a small Asian woman named Akiko, who was Father's nurse and the tunnel community's paramedic.

Stosh had regained consciousness by then and was twisting his head around as they went, trying to take in every part of the alien landscape and the unfamiliar but friendly faces surrounding him - and all at the same time. Diana knew what that was like. She'd been a stranger here too, once. But not for long. And she somehow knew Stosh wouldn't be, either.

She was shooting inquiring looks Vincent's way as they walked, still not really able to pick up anything from him beyond a general sense of fatigue and, layered under that, sadness. She figured there were probably lots of reasons for it, but wasn't sure she was ready to probe that deeply just yet. She finally settled on asking him a general question.

"You okay, babe?"

He glanced at her and then back ahead at the tunnel before them. "No," he admitted. "But I will be."

She let it go at that and voiced another concern. "So what's Father going to think about you bringing Stosh Below?"

"I'm hopeful his first concern will be for that of a patient requiring his tender care. As for the rest … he will come to accept it. Father is used to me bringing home strays."

She gave him a sharp look and caught the tail-end of what might have been a smile. "Yeah … yeah, I guess he would be. You kind of make a habit of that, don't you?"

"I do."

"Lucky for the strays."

That earned her a definite smile. It was small, just a slight lifting of the corners of his mouth, but she'd take it.

"You're not mad at me, are you?" she blurted. "For not waiting like I said I would? For coming early?"

He graced her with a corner of the eye look. "How early were you?"

"I dunno," she shrugged sheepishly. "Three or four hours. But I started the countdown when you gave me the okay, not when you snuck off on me. I figured that was fair since I was asleep and couldn't check my watch. So are you mad at me?"

"No, I'm grateful," he said after a few beats. "Had you waited any longer …"

He didn't have to finish the thought. They shuffled along in silence for awhile. Diana was still trying to process all that'd happened and knew it would be some time before it could all sink in. She was a little surprised to find herself sad, too, and wondered how much of it was leaking from Vincent and she was picking up on and thinking was her own. She pondered that for a minute and decided the sadness _was_ hers.

Pretty soon he opened his mouth like he was going to say something and then closed it again. A minute later he repeated the action and this time said, "I'm sorry, Diana. For putting you through this. And for what almost happened, what I ... almost did."

"Shut up, Vincent," she rebuked pleasantly.

He didn't seem inclined to protest. Instead, he reached over and took her hand, threading his fingers through hers. Diana held on tightly, gratefully. She was feeling beat-up and mentally exhausted, and wasn't filtering everything as carefully as she probably should have. So it wasn't a shocker when her next thought just popped out of her mouth.

"What did Celina say to you, there at the end?"

Vincent's fingers tightened on hers but he didn't answer. She probably shouldn't have asked: it wasn't really any of her business. That was between him and Celina and best left alone. They'd reached the outermost edge of the Hub before anything more was said. And it came from Vincent this time.

"Thank you."

"For what? You would've done the same for me."

"No, you've misunderstood, Diana, I'm sorry. That's what she said to me. Celina said, 'Thank you.'"

That pulled her up short. "Oh," she mumbled, feeling really dumb and painfully awkward. "Oh. Well, that's kind of … a little bit …"

"Strange?" Vincent finished. "I suppose. But I think what Celina wanted most of all was to feel loved. And perhaps for a short time, and with me, she did." There was a medium silence while they both thought about that. Then Vincent added, "But I _am_ thankful … for your bravery. For all you've done for me. No, please, let me finish. Over the last two days, several things have become very apparent to me, where once I had no clarity. I was blinded by many things, my grief being foremost among them. But then I was reminded, by those I love most dearly, of what I had forgotten; of the gift I'd been granted but had turned away from."

Speaking of turning away, she noticed they'd zigged where they should have zagged and Vincent was leading them toward the Commons instead of the hospital chamber. "Babe," she started, "shouldn't we be going –"

"I know precisely where I'm going, Diana," he cut in, and she pressed her lips tight to keep anything else from slipping out. "Now, as I was saying," he continued, "I realized what needed to be done to set things right again. Which path I must take in order to fulfill a promise both given and received. And I could only pray, last night, that I would have the opportunity to do so."

He stopped them as they reached a door – a real one, wooden and with a doorknob and hinges and everything – set into the rock. He turned to her and took her other hand, so he was holding onto both of them. She peered up at him, suddenly nervous.

Vincent gave her a quick glance before dipping his head. And after a small silence he said quietly, "There are things I want, Diana. For us. And ... for myself." As if that wasn't enough to get her attention all by itself, he raised his eyes and pinned her with a look that instantly took her breath away. "I want to know you in every possible way. I want to mark you as mine; to become so much a part of you that you'll feel me forever in your bones. I want to wake with you and dream with you. Make impossibly beautiful red-headed children with you. Grow old with you and die in your arms … many, many years from now. I want all these things, Diana. I want them very much."

She finally remembered to breathe and didn't give a damn that it came out as a sob. Then she pulled in another breath and let it out slowly, shrugged her shoulders straight, and said with as much dignity as she could muster, "Are you asking me to go steady, Vincent?"

And with just as much dignity and sincerity he responded, "Yes, I am. For as long as you'll have me."

"That could be a very long time."

"I hope so."

Then he leaned in and soundly kissed her.

When he finally pulled back he was smiling widely, top and bottom fangs showing, forming deep creases around his eyes that she found infinitely precious. "Come," he said, and opened the door, pulling her in behind him. They took a few steps in the dark and then Vincent reached up and turned a switch. One of those ceiling lamps that didn't seem to be hooked up to anything but, by God, worked anyway, came on, and she took a look around.

They were standing in some sort of storage room slash lab. The air smelled yeasty and pungent and kind of sweet. There were large wooden casks stacked against the walls, along with several well-stocked wine racks, and a long table covered with empty five gallon water bottles, like the kind you'd find in offices Above. There were also huge aluminum stock pots, assorted tubes and fittings, several Bunsen burners and hot plates, piles of what looked like cheesecloth, and burlap sacks stuffed with who knew what. She looked at Vincent with curiosity.

"This is where William distills the vodka he makes from potatoes. He also bottles his own wines and is perfecting, I've heard, a rather full-bodied ale. He's experimenting with the different types of malted barley, in order to find just the right one. To every craft, its proper mystery."

"Boy, for a guy who hardly ever drinks, you sure do know your stuff."

"Some basic understanding is inevitable if one spends any length of time conversing with William. He's very passionate about his interests."

"I've noticed that about you tunnel folks. The whole being passionate thing."

"One must live life as fully as one can, Diana. Red or white?"

Vincent headed for one of the wine racks and reached up onto a shelf above it, pulling down two small jelly jars. He turned to back to her, waiting.

"Oh, I don't care. Red, I guess."

Vincent pulled out three or four different bottles, taking a second to read the label stuck on each one before deciding which he wanted. He carried it, along with the makeshift wine glasses, over to the table and poked around until he came up with a corkscrew. She joined him as he expertly opened the bottle and poured each glass three-quarters full.

"I suppose it would be proper to allow the wine to breathe, but I think William will grant us an exception this time."

She felt kind of foolish, standing there with a huge smile plastered on her face, probably looking as goofy as she felt. No, not goofy: happy. She was undeniably and absolutely about as happy as she'd ever been. And very, very deeply in love with the man handing her a glass of homemade wine as they stood in the distillery of the Great and Mystical Subterranean Otherworld that was surely as much her home as the loft.

"I think, Diana," he said to her, "that after the day we've had, we both could use a drink, don't you?"

"Day, hell. How about after the last couple months we've had? Can't say it's been boring."

"I believe we're both due some peace and quiet. Enjoyed together, preferably."

"Except when I'm working, right? You know how brain-locked I can get."

"Of course. And I shall continue to be as little a nuisance as possible during those times. If I should find myself missing you, I'll do as I've done before and quietly slip into your loft, occupy myself with something that won't disturb you. You won't even know I'm there."

"That is never going to happen, buster," she retorted. "The day will never come when I'm gonna forget you're there."

"Good. I'm glad to hear it. It's selfish of me, but I'm finding it difficult to feel badly about it, just now."

"So what are we toasting to, Vincent?" she asked, lifting her glass in preparation. He brought those crystal blue, soulful, and deeply human eyes level with hers as he clinked the edge of his glass against the one she held.

"Don't you know, my love? To the journey."

© Lydia Bower 2012

Authors Ramblings & Explanations

Every story begins with the writer asking, "What if?" This series began with several "what ifs?" The first being: "What if I could draw on everything I learned from my writing mentor, way back in the day, along with just a fraction of the inspiration and joy her written words have given me, and write a story to give something back to her in return?" In case you're not familiar with Nan Dibble, she was a pro writer who dabbled (and did it fabulously) in fanfic. Nan was one of the first people to welcome me into the BATB community, and to encourage me to try my hand at writing fanfic. I've always written things, from as far back as I can remember, but Nan is the one who brought focus to my craft and pushed me beyond the limits I'd thought myself capable of.

You may be familiar with her "official" Beauty and The Beast novels, _Beyond Words, Beyond Silence _and _Bright Spirit Descending_. But she also edited and contributed to the _Phoenix_ series of 4th Season zines and wrote what I consider not only the finest piece of BATB fanfic ever written, but one of the best pieces of fiction **period**, her _Acquainted with the Night_ series. If you haven't read it, I encourage you to seek out fellow fans with zine collections or the newly reopened Crystal Rose Lending Library and get your hands on all three books in the series. No one wrote, or will write, Vincent and Diana as authentically, convincingly, and as lovingly as Nan did - no one. And I'll stand toe-to-toe and argue to the death with anyone who reads the _Acquainted with the Night_ series and disagrees with me.

Sadly, we lost Nan in 2006. This series is a tribute to, and in honor of, her memory. Those of you familiar with her BATB works of fiction may find signposts sprinkled here and there among these stories that harken back to something Nan wrote: a phrase; a snippet of dialogue; a conjecture; an idea. This was completely intentional on my part. Much like the living spirit of Catherine residing within Vincent, I feel as though Nan occupied a small part of my creative mind and heart as I wrote these stories. I think she'd be pleased to know that. I hope so, anyway.

Some of the other "What ifs?" I wanted to explore included the desire to find out what Vincent might do if he were afforded the opportunity to have Catherine back in some form, and this after having fallen in love with Diana. And since the thought of writing an SND makes me break out in painful hives, I went about it in a SSD sort of way: SSD = She's Still Dead. A new category of BATB fanfic perhaps? ;) I also wanted to explore the cruel and twisted world Gabriel and Snow occupied, and since they were both dead by the end of the series, I had to create a fitting antagonist for Vincent and Diana. I tried to mesh the two ideas into the character of Celina Corbin. I think it worked fairly well. But I'm sure I'll have my regrets when I go back and read this through someday in the not-so-distant future. Such is the life of a writer, filled with never ending "I should haves," to go along with the "What ifs?"

I also wanted to bring back Elliot Burch, who was always intriguing when he showed up during the first two seasons of BATB, but became wholly compelling to me during the 3rd. I was heart-broken when we lost him in _Beggar's Comet._ But then, his body was never recovered, was it? I felt I could bring him back and still stay safely within canon. I don't think Stosh is quite finished with me yet. I'd certainly welcome the opportunity to bring him back out to play in some future story.

For those curious few, all the titles and subtitles of these stories came from lines of dialogue contained within the 3rd season. They are as follows:

**Journey**: "Your journey's almost finished." Gabriel talking about Catherine in _Though Lovers Be Lost._

Subtitle: "Someone has come into my life. Someone from the world Above." Vincent talking to Father about Diana in _Chimes at Midnight_.

**Halfway to the Stars**: "You've pulled yourself up out of the dirt … halfway to the stars." Gabriel to Elliot in _Beggar's Comet_.

Subtitle: "Dreams can be dreamt again. Sandcastles can be rebuilt." Vincent to Elliot in _Beggar's Comet_.

**Gravity & the Fear of Falling**: "The world is a very simple place: gravity and the fear of falling. That's all there is." From Gabriel's soliloquy in _Though Lovers Be Lost_.

Subtitle: "I know the power of love." Gabriel in _Invictus_.

**Vessel**: "She's just the vessel." Gabriel referring to Catherine in _Though Lovers Be Lost_.

Subtitle: "There's only one bond that counts." Gabriel to Vincent in _Invictus_.

**Never Diminish**: "I've looked into his eyes a thousand times. Why does his power never diminish?" Vincent talking to Diana about Jacob in _Legacies_.

Subtitle: "Whatever I've lost along the way, I'll find again … with him." Vincent talking to Mary about Jacob in _The Reckoning_.

Thanks to Mr. Rilke, Mr. Shakespeare, Mr. Wordsworth and Mr. Whitman, for their words and the indelible images those words conjured.

If you've made it this far, congratulations and thank you! May you be well and be happy.

Beast Wishes Always!

Lydia

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